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MARTIN  PIPPIN 
IN  THE  APPLE  ORCHARD 


MARTIN  PIPPIN 

IN  THE  APPLE  ORCHARD 


BY 


ELEANOR  FARJEON 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


All  Rights  Resewed 


Published,  August  25,  1922 

Second  Printing,  October  19,  1922 
Third  Printing,  December  1.  1922 
Fourth  Printing,  June  18,  1923 

Fifth  Printing,     February  19,  1925 


Printed  in  the  United  States  oj  America 


To 

MY  FRIEND 

V.  K.  H. 


FOREWORD 

I  have  been  asked  to  introduce  Miss  Farjeon  to  the  American 
public,  and  although  I  believe  that  introductions  of  this  kind 
often  do  more  harm  than  good,  I  have  consented  in  this  case 
because  the  instance  is  rare  enough  to  justify  an  exception.  If 
Miss  Farjeon  had  been  a  promising  young  novelist  either  of  the 
realistic  or  the  romantic  school,  I  should  not  have  dared  to 
express  an  opinion  on  her  work,  even  if  I  had  believed  that  she 
had  greater  gifts  than  the  ninety-nine  other  promising  3'oung 
novelists  who  appear  in  the  course  of  each  decade.  But  she 
has  a  far  rarer  gift  than  any  of  those  that  go  to  the  making  of 
a  successful  novelist.  She  is  one  of  the  few  who  can  conceive 
and  tell  a  fairy-tale;  the  only  one  to  my  knowledge — with  the 
just  possible  exceptions  of  James  Stephens  and  Walter  de  la 
Mare — in  my  own  generation.  She  has,  in  fact,  the  true  gift 
of  fancy.  It  has  already  been  displayed  in  her  verse — a  form 
in  which  it  is  far  commoner  than  in  prose — but  Martin  Pippin 
is  her  first  book  in  tliis  kind. 

I  am  afraid  to  say  too  much  about  it  for  fear  of  prejudicing 
both  the  reviewers  and  the  general  public.  My  taste  may  not 
be  theirs  and  in  this  matter  there  is  no  opportunity  for  argu- 
ment. Let  me,  therefore,  do  no  more  than  tell  the  story  of 
how  the  manuscript  affected  me.  I  was  a  little  overworked. 
I  had  been  reading  a  great  number  of  manuscripts  in  the  pre- 
ceding weeks,  and  the  mere  sight  of  typescript  was  a  burden  to 
me.  But  before  I  had  read  five  pages  of  Martin  Pippin,  I  had 
forgotten  that  it  was  a  manuscript  submitted  for  my  judgment. 
I  had  forgotten  who  I  was  and  where  I  lived.  I  was  trans- 
ported into  a  world  of  sunlight,  of  gay  inconsequence,  of  emo- 
tional surprise,  a  world  of  poetry,  delight,  and  humor.  And 
I  lived  and  took  my  joy  in  that  rare  world,  until  all  too  soon 
my  reading  was  done. 

My  most  earnest  wish  is  that  there  may  be  many  minds  and 
imaginations  among  the  American  people  who  will  be  able  to 
share  that  pleasure  with  me.  For  every  one  who  finds  delight 
in  this  book  I  can  claim  as  a  kindred  spirit. 

J.  D.  Beresford. 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Foreword vii 

Introduction xi 

Prologue — Part  I i 

Part  II 7 

Part  III 11 

Prelude  to  the  First  Tale 17 

The  First  Tale:  The  King's  Barn    ....  20 

First  Interlude 45 

The  Second  Tale  :  Young  Gerard     ....  53 

Second  Interlude 83 

The  Third  Tale  :  The  Mill  of  Dreams     ...  92 

Third  Interlude 127 

The  Fourth  Tale:  Open  Winkins  ....  140 

Fourth  Interlude 174 

The  Fifth  Tale:  Proud  Rosalind  and  the  Hart- 
Royal    188 

Fifth  Interlude 224 

The  Sixth  Tale:  The  Imprisoned  Princess      .        .  239 

PosTLUDE — Part  I 243 

Part  II 247 

Part  III 248 

Part  IV .251 

Epilogue 257 

Conclusion 265 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  Adversane  in  Sussex  they  still  sing  the  song  of  The 
Spring-Green  Lady;  any  fine  evening,  in  the  streets  or 
in  the  meadows,  you  may  come  upon  a  band  of  children 
playing  the  old  game  that  is  their  heritage,  though  few  of  them 
know  its  origin,  or  even  that  it  had  one.  It  is  to  them  as  the 
daisies  in  the  grass  and  the  stars  in  the  sky.  Of  these  things, 
and  such  as  these,  they  ask  no  questions.  But  there  you  will 
still  find  one  child  who  takes  the  part  of  the  Emperor's 
Daughter,  and  another  who  is  the  Wandering  Singer,  and  the 
remaining  group  (there  should  be  no  more  than  six  in  it)  be- 
comes the  Spring-Green  Lady,  the  Rose-White  Lady,  the  Apple- 
Gold  Lady,  of  the  three  parts  of  the  game.  Often  there  are 
more  than  six  in  the  group,  for  the  true  number  of  the  damsels 
who  guarded  their  fellow  in  her  prison  is  as  forgotten  as  their 
names:  Joscelyn,  Jane  and  Jennifer,  Jessica,  Joyce  and  Joan. 
Forgotten,  too,  the  name  of  Gillian,  the  lovely  captive.  And 
the  Wandering  Singer  is  to  them  but  the  Wandering  Singer, 
not  Martin  Pippin  the  Minstrel.  Worse  and  worse,  he  is  even 
presumed  to  be  the  captive's  sweetheart,  who  wheedles  the 
flower,  the  ring,  and  the  prison-key  out  of  the  strict  virgins  for 
his  own  purposes,  and  flies  with  her  at  last  in  his  shallop 
across  the  sea,  to  live  with  her  happily  ever  after.  But  this 
is  a  fallacy.  Martin  Pippin  never  wheedled  anything  out  of 
anybody  for  his  own  purposes — in  fact,  he  had  none  of  his  own. 
On  this  adventure  he  was  about  the  business  of  young  Robin 
Rue.  There  are  further  discrepancies;  for  the  Emperor's 
Daughter  was  not  an  emperor's  daughter,  but  a  farmer's;  nor 

was  the  Sea  the  sea,  but  a  duckpond ;  nor 

But  let  us  begin  with  the  children's  version,   as  they  sing 
and  dance  it  on  summer  days  and  evenings  in  Adversane. 


THE  SINGING-GAME  OF  "THE  SPRING-GREEN  LADY" 

(The  Emperor's  Daughter  sits  ivecplng  in  her  Toiuer.     Around  her, 
luith  their  backs  to  her,  stand  six  maids  in  a  ring,  itnth  joined  hands. 

xi 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

They  are  in  green  dresses.    The  Wandering  Singer  approaches  them 
ivith  his  lute.) 

THE  WANDERING  SINGER 

Lady,  lady,   my  spring-green   lady, 
Mav  I  come  into  your  orchard,  lady? 
For  the  leaf  is  no^w  on  the  apple-bough 

And  the  sun  is  high  and  the  laivn  is  shady. 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady! 
O  my  spring-green  lady! 

THE   LADIES 

You  may  not  come  into  our  orchard,  singer, 
Because  lue  must  guard  the  Emperor's  Daughter 
Who  hides  in  her  hair  at  the  ivindoiv  there 
With  her  thoughts  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  ivater. 
Singer,   singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-s<vjeet  singer! 

THE  WANDERING  SINGER 

Lady,  lady,  my  spring-green  lady, 
Bvt  ivill  you  not  hear  an  Alba,  lady? 
ril  play  for  you  noiu  'neath  the  apple-bough 
And  you  shall  dance  on  the  laivn  so  shady. 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  spring-green  lady! 


THE   LADIES 

O  if  you  play  us  an  Alba,  singer, 
Hoiv  can  that  harm  the  Emperor's  Daughter? 
No  ivord  would  she  say  though  ive  danced  all  day, 
With  her  thoughts  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  nuater. 
Singer,  singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-siaeet  singer! 


THE  WANDERING  SINGER 

But  if  I  play  you  an  Alba,  lady. 
Get  me  a  boon  from  the  Emperor's  Daughter — 
The  flower  from  her  hair  for  my  heart  to  lueat 
ThougJi  hers  be  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  nuater. 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  spring-green  lady! 


INTRODUCTION  xlii 

THE   LADIES 

{They  give  him  the  floiuer  from  the  hair  of  the  Emperor's  Daughter, 
and  sing — ) 

Noiu  you  may  play  us  an  Alba,  singer, 
A  dance  of  daiim  for  a  spring-green  lady. 
For  the  leaf  is  noiv  on  the  apple-bough. 

And  the  sun  is  high  and  the  laivn  is  shady. 
Singer,  singer, 
IVandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-siiseet  singer! 

(The  Wandering  Singer  plays  on  his  lute,  and  The  Ladies  break  their 
ranks  and  dance.  The  Singer  steals  up  behind  The  Emperor's 
Daughter,  luho  uncovers  her  face  and  sings — ) 

THE   emperor's   DAUGHTER 

Mother,  mother,  my  fair  dead  mother. 

They  have  stolen  the  flovjer  from  your  weeping  daughter! 

the   WANDERING   SINGER 

O  dry  your  eyes,  you  shall  have  this  other 

When  yours  is  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water. 

Daughter,  daughter. 

My  szveet  daughter! 
Love  is  not  far,  my  daughter! 


The  Singer  then  drops  a  second  flower  into  the  lap  of  the 
child  in  the  middle,  and  goes  away,  and  this  ends  the  first  part 
of  the  game.  The  Emperor's  Daughter  is  not  yet  released,  for 
the  key  of  her  tower  is  understood  to  be  still  in  the  keeping  of 
the  dancing  children.  Very  likely  it  is  bed-time  by  this,  and 
mothers  are  calling  from  windows  and  gates,  and  the  children 
must  run  home  to  their  warm  bread-and-milk  and  their  cool 
sheets.  But  if  time  is  still  to  spare,  the  second  part  of  the  game 
is  played  like  this.  The  dancers  once  more  encircle  their  weep- 
ing comrade,  and  now  they  are  gowned  in  white  and  pink. 
They  will  indicate  these  changes  perhaps  by  colored  ribbons,  or 
by  any  flower  in  its  season,  or  by  imagining  themselves  first  in 
green  and  then  in  rose,  which  is  really  the  best  way  of  all. 
Well  then — 

(The  Ladies,  in  gowns  of  white  and  rose-color,  stand  around  The 
Emperor's  Daughter,  weeping  in  her  Tower.  To  them  once  more 
iomes  The  Wandering  Singer  with  his  lute.) 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

THE   WANDERING    SINGER 

Lady,  lady,  my  rose-ivhite  lady. 
May  I  come  into  your  orchard,  lady? 
For  the  blossom's  noiv  on  the  apple-bough 

And  the  stars  are  near  and  the  latun  is  shady. 
Lady,  lady, 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  rose-ivhite  lady! 

THE    LADIES 

You  may  not  come  into  our  orchard,  singer. 
Lest  you  bear  a  ivord  to  the  Emperor's  Daughter 
From  one  who  ivas  sent  to  banishment 
Away  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water, 
Singer,  singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-sweet  singer! 

THE   WANDERING   SINGER 

Lady,  lady,  my  rose-white  lady. 
But  will  you  not  hear  a  Roundel,  ladyf 
ril  play  for  you  now  'neath  the  apple-bough 
And  you  shall  trip  on  the  lawn  so  shady, 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  rose-white  lady! 

THE   LADIES 

O  if  you  play  us  a  Roundel,  singer. 
How  can  that  harm   the  Emperor's  Daughter? 
She  would  not  speak  though  wie  danced  a  week. 

With  her  thoughts  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water, 
Singer,  singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-sweet  singer! 

THE   WANDERING   SINGER 

But  if  I  play  you  a  Roundel,  Jady, 
Get  me  a  gift  from  the  Emperor's  Daughter — 
Her  finger-ring  for  my  finger  bring 

Though  she's  pledged  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water, 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  rose-white  lady! 

THE    LADIES 

{They  give  him  the  ring  from  the  finger  of  The  Emperor's  Daughter, 
and  sing — ) 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Noiv  you  may  play  us  a  Roundel,  singer, 
A  sunset-dance  for  a  rose-nvhite  lady, 
For  the  blossom's  now  on  the  apple-bough, 

And  the  stars  are  near  and  the  lawn  is  shady. 
Singer,  singer, 
IVandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-sweet  singer/ 

(As  before.  The  Singer  plays  and  The  Ladies  dance;  and  through 
the  broken  circle  The  Singer  comes  behind  The  Emperor's  Daughter, 
who  uncovers  her  face  to  sing — ) 

the  emperor's  daughter 

Mother,  mother,  my  fair  dead  mother, 

They've  stolen  the  ring  from  your  heart-sick  daughter. 

THE   wandering   SINGER 

O  mend  your  heart,  you  shall  wear  this  other 
When  yours  is  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  wattr. 

Daughter,  daughter. 

My  sweet  daughter! 
Love  is  at  hand,  my  daughter! 

The  third  part  of  the  game  is  seldom  played.  If  it  is  not 
bed-time,  or  tea-time,  or  dinner-time,  or  school-time,  by  this 
time  at  all  events  the  players  have  grown  weary  of  the  game, 
which  is  tiresomely  long;  and  most  likely  they  will  decide  to 
play  something  else,  such  as  Bertha  Gentle  Lady,  or  The  Busy 
Lass,  or  Gypsy,  Gypsy,  Raggetty  Loon!,  or  The  Ci'ock  of  Gold, 
o-  Wayland,  Shoe  me  my  Mare! — ^which  are  all  good  games  in 
their  way,  though  not,  like  The  Spring-Green  Lady,  native  to 
Adversane.  But  I  did  once  have  the  luck  to  hear  and  see  The 
Lady  played  in  entirety — the  children  had  been  granted  leave 
to  play  "just  one  more  game"  before  bed-time,  and  of  course 
they  chose  the  longest  and  played  it  without  missing  a  syllable. 

(The  Ladies,  in  yellow  dresses,  stand  again  in  a  ring  about  The  Em- 
peror's Daughter,  and  are  for  the  last  time  accosted  by  The  Singer 
with  his  lute.) 

THE  WANDERING   SINGER 

Lady,  lady,  my  apple-gold  lady, 
May  I  come  into  your  orchard,  lady? 
For  the  fruit  is  now  on  the  apple-bough, 

And  the  moon  is  up  and  the  lawn  is  shady. 
Lady,  lady. 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  apple-guld  lady! 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

THE  LADIES 

You  may  not  come  into  our  orchard,  singer, 
In  case  you  set  free  the  Emperor's  Daughter 
Who  pines  apart  to  follow  her  heart 

Thafs  floijjn  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water. 
Singer,  singer, 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-siaeet  singer! 

THE  WANDERING-  SINGER 

Lady,  lady,  my  apple-gold  lady, 
But  luill  you  not  hear  a  Serena,  lady? 
I'll  play  for  you  noiv  'neath  the  apple-bough 
And  you  shall  dream  on  the  lawn  so  shady. 
Lady,  lady, 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  apple-gold  lady! 

THE   LADIES 

O  if  you  play  a  Serena,  singer, 
Hoiv  can  that  harm  the  Emperor's  Daughter? 
She  would  not  hear  though  ive  danced  a  year 

With  her  heart  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water. 
Singer,  singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-sweet  singer! 

THE   WANDERING   SINGER 

But  if  I  play  a  Serena,  lady. 

Let  me  guard  the  key  of  the  Emperor's  Daughter, 
Lest  her  body  should  follow  her  heart  like  a  swallow 
And  fly  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water, 
Lady,  lady, 
My  fair  lady, 
O  my  apple-gold  lady! 

THE  LADIES 

{They  give  the  key  of  the  Tower  into  his  hands.) 

Now  you  may  play  a  Serena,  singer, 
A  dream  of  night  for  an  apple-gold  lady, 
For  the  fruit  is  now  on  the  apple-hough 

And  the  moon  is  up  and  the  lawn  is  shady. 
Singer,  singer. 
Wandering  singer, 
O  my  honey-sweet  singer! 

{Once  more  The  Singer  plays  and  The  Ladies  dance;  but  one  by  one 
they  fall  asleep  to  the  drowsy  music,  and  then  The  Singer  steps  into 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

the  ring  and  unlocks  the  Toiler  and  kisses  The  Emperor's  Daughter. 
They  have  the  end  of  the  game  to  themselves.) 

Lover,  lover,   \     ^  cwn  true  lover 

'    I  my 

Has  opened  a  nuay  for  the  Emperor's  Daughter! 
The  daivn  is  the  goal  and  the  dark  the  cover 
As  voe  sail  a  thousand  leagues  over  the  water — 
Lover,  lover. 
My  dear  lover, 
O  my  ovun  true  lover! 

(The  Wandering  Singer  and  The  Emperor's  Daughter  float  a  thou- 
sand leagues  in  his  shallop  and  live  happily  ever  after.  I  don't  knovj 
what  becomes  of  The  Ladies.) 

"Bed-time,  children!" 

In  they  go. 

You  see  the  treatment  is  a  trifle  fanciful.  But  romance 
gathers  round  an  old  story  like  lichen  on  an  old  branch.  And 
the  story  of  Martin  Pippin  in  the  Apple-Orchard  is  so  old 
now — some  say  a  year  old,  some  say  even  two.  How  can  the 
children  be  expected  to  remember? 

But  here's  the  truth  of  it. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE 
APPLE-ORCHARD 


PROLOGUE 
PART  I 

ONE  morning  in  April  Martin  Pippin  walked  in  the 
meadows  near  Adversane,  and  there  he  saw  a  young 
fellow  sowing  a  field  with  oata  broadcast.  So  pleasant  a 
sight  was  enough  to  arrest  Martin  for  an  hour,  though  less 
important  things,  such  as  making  his  living,  could  not  occupy 
him  for  a  minute.  So  he  leaned  upon  the  gate,  and  presently 
noticed  that  for  every  handful  he  scattered  the  young  man 
shed  as  many  tears  as  seeds,  and  now  and  then  he  stopped  his 
sowing  altogether,  and  putting  his  face  between  his  hands 
sobbed  bitterly.  When  this  had  happened  three  or  four  times, 
Martin  hailed  the  youth,  who  was  then  fairly  close  to  the 
gate. 

"Young  master!"  said  he.  "The  baker  of  this  crop  will 
want  no  salt  to  his  baking,  and  that's  flat." 

The  young  man  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  his  brown 
and  tear-stained  countenance  upon  the  Minstrel.  He  was  so 
young  a  man  that  he  wanted  his  beard. 

"They  who  taste  of  my  sorrow,"  he  replied,  "will  have  no 
stomach  for  bread." 

And  with  that  he  fell  anew  to  his  sowing  and  sighing,  and 
passed  up  the  field. 

When  he  came  down  again  Martin  observed,  "It  must  be  a 
very  bitter  sorrow  that  will  put  a  man  ofE  his  dinner." 

"It  is  the  bitterest,"  said  the  youth,  and  went  his  way. 

At  his  next  coming  Martin  inquired,  "What  is  the  name  of 
your  sorrow?' 


>'» 


2     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Love,"  said  the  youth.  By  now  he  was  somewhat  distant 
from  the  gate  when  he  came  abreast  of  it,  and  Martin  Pippin 
did  not  catch  the  word.     So  he  called  louder: 

"What?" 

"Love!"  shouted  the  youth.  His  voice  cracked  on  it.  He 
appeared  slightly  annoyed.  Martin  chewed  a  grass  and  watched 
him  up  and  down  the  meadow. 

At  the  right  moment  he  bellowed : 

"I  was  never  yet  put  off  my  feed  by  love." 

"Then,"  roared  the  youth,  "you  have  never  loved." 

At  this  Martin  jumped  over  the  gate  and  ran  along  the  fur- 
row behind  the  boy. 

"I  have  loved,"  he  vowed,  "as  many  times  as  I  have  tuned 
lute-strings." 

"Then,"  said  the  youth,  not  turning  his  head,  "you  have 
never  loved  in  vain." 

"Always,  thank  God!"  said  Martin  fervently. 

The  j^outh,  whose  name  was  Robin  Rue,  suddenly  dropped 
all  his  seed  in  one  heap,  flung  up  his  arms,  and, 

"Alas!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  Gillian!  GiUian!"  And  began 
to  sob  more  heavily  than  ever. 

"Tell  me  your  trouble,"  said  the  Minstrel  kindly. 

"Sir,"  said  the  youth,  "I  do  not  know  your  name,  and  your 
clothes  are  very  tattered.  But  you  are  the  first  who  has  cared 
whether  or  no  my  heart  should  break  since  my  lovely  Gillian 
was  locked  with  six  keys  into  her  father's  Well-House,  and 
six  young  milkmaids,  sworn  virgins  and  man-haters  all,  to  keep 
the  keys." 

"The  thirsty,"  said  Martin,  "make  little  of  padlocks  when 
within  a  rope's  length  of  water." 

"But,  sir,"  continued  the  youth  earnestly,  "this  Well-House 
is  set  in  the  midst  of  an  Apple-Orchard  enclosed  in  a  hawthorn 
hedge  full  six  foot  high,  and  no  entrance  thereto  but  one  small 
green  wicket,  bolted  on  the  inner  side." 

"Indeed?"  said  Martin. 

"And  worse  to  come.  The  length  of  the  hedge  there  is  a 
great  duckpond,  nine  yards  broad,  and  three  wild  ducks  swim- 
ming on  it.  Alas!"  he  cried,  "I  shall  never  see  my  lovely  girl 
again !" 

"Love  is  a  mighty  power,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "but  there 
are  doubtless  things  it  cannot  do." 

"I  ask  so  little,"  sighed  Robin  Rue.     "Only  to  send  her  a 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    3 

primrose  for  her  hair-band,  and  have  again  whatever  flower 
she  wears  there  now." 

"Would  this  really  content  you?"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

"I  would  then  consent  to  live,"  swore  Robin  Rue,  "long 
enough  at  all  events  to  make  an  end  of  my  sowing." 

"Well,  that  would  be  something,"  said  Martin  cheerfully, 
"for  fields  must  not  go  fallow  that  are  appointed  to  bear.  Di- 
rect me  to  your  Gillian's  Apple-Orchard." 

"It  is  useless,"  Robin  said.  "For  even  if  you  could  cross  the 
duckpond,  and  evade  the  ducks,  and  compass  the  green  gate, 
my  sweetheart's  father's  milkmaids  are  not  to  be  come  over 
by  any  man ;  and  they  watch  the  Well-House  day  and  night." 

"Yet  direct  me  to  the  orchard,"  repeated  Martin  Pippin,  and 
thrummed  his  lute  a  little. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  Robin  anxiously,  "I  must  warn  you  that  it 
is  a  long  and  weary  way,  it  may  be  as  much  as  two  mile  by 
the  road."  And  he  looked  disconsolately  at  the  Minstrel,  as 
though  in  fear  that  he  would  be  discouraged  from  the  adven- 
ture. 

"It  can  but  be  attempted,"  answered  Martin,  "and  now  tell 
me  only  whether  I  go  north  or  south  as  the  road  runs." 

"Gillman  the  farmer,  her  father,"  said  Robin  Rue,  "has 
moreover  a  very  big  stick — " 

"Heaven  help  us!"  cried  Martin,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

"That  ends  it!"  sighed  the  sorry  lover. 

"At  least  let  us  make  a  beginning!"  quoth  Martin  Pippin. 

He  leaped  the  gate,  mocked  at  a  cuckoo,  plucked  a  prim- 
rose, and  went  singing  up  the  road. 

Robin  Rue  resumed  his  sowing  and  his  tears. 

"Maids,"  said  Joscelyn,  "what  is  this  coming  across  the  duck- 
pond?" 

"It  is  a  man,"  said  little  Joan. 

The  six  girls  came  running  and  crowding  to  the  wicket, 
standing  a-tiptoc  and  peeping  between  each  other's  sunbonnets. 
Their  sunbonnets  and  their  gowns  were  as  green  as  lettuce- 
leaves. 

"Is  he  coming  on  a  raft?"  asked  Jessica,  who  stood  behind. 

"No,"  said  Jane,  "he  is  coming  on  his  two  feet.  He  has 
taken  off  his  shoes,  but  I  fear  his  breeches  will  suffer." 

"He  is  giving  bread  to  the  ducks,"  said  Jennifer. 

"He  has  a  lute  on  his  back,"  said  Joyce. 


4    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Man!"  cried  Joscelyn,  who  was  the  tallest  and  the  sternest 
of  the  milkmaids,  "go  away  at  once!" 

Martin  Pippin  was  by  now  within  arm's-length  of  the  green 
gate.  He  looked  with  pleasure  at  the  six  virgins  fluttering  in 
their  green  gowns,  and  peeping  bright-eyed  and  rosy-cheeked 
under  their  green  bonnets.  Beyond  them  he  saw  the  forbid- 
den orchard,  with  cuckoo-flower  and  primrose,  daffodil  and 
celandine,  silver  windflower  and  sweet  violets  blue  and  white, 
spangling  the  gay  grass.  The  twisted  apple-trees  were  in  young 
leaf. 

"Go  away!"  cried  all  the  milkmaids  in  a  breath.  "Go 
away !" 

"My  green  maidens,"  said  Martin,  "may  I  not  come  into 
your  orchard?  The  sun  is  up,  and  the  shadow  lies  fresh  on 
the  grass.  Let  me  in  to  rest  a  little,  dear  maidens — if  maidens 
indeed  you  be,  and  not  six  leaflets  blown  from  the  apple- 
branches." 

"You  cannot  come  in,"  said  Joscelyn,  "because  we  are  guard- 
ing our  master's  daughter,  who  sits  yonder  weeping  in  the 
Well-House." 

"That  is  a  noble  and  a  tender  duty,"  said  Martin.  "From 
what  do  you  guard  her?" 

The  milkmaids  looked  primly  at  one  another,  and  little  Joan 
said,  "It  is  a  secret." 

Martin  :  I  will  ask  no  more.  And  what  do  you  do  all  day 
long? 

Joyce:     Nothing,  and  it  is  very  dull. 

Martin:  It  must  be  still  duller  for  your  master's  daugh- 
ter. 

Joan  :    Oh,  no,  she  has  her  thoughts  to  play  with. 

Martin  :    And  what  of  your  thoughts  ? 

Joscelyn:  We  have  no  thoughts.  I  should  think  not  in- 
deed! 

Martin  :  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  since  you  find  the  hours 
so  tedious,  will  you  not  let  me  sing  and  play  to  you  upon  my 
lute?  I  will  sing  you  a  song  for  a  spring  morning,  and  you 
shall  dance  in  the  grass  like  any  leaf  in  the  wind. 

Jane:    I  think  there  can  be  no  harm  in  that. 

Jessica:    It  can't  matter  a  straw  to  Gillian. 

Joyce:  She  would  not  look  up  from  her  thoughts  though 
we  footed  it  all  day. 

Joscelyn  :    So  long  as  he  is  on  one  side  of  the  gate — 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     5 

Jennifer:    — and  we  on  the  other. 

"I  love  to  dance,"  said  little  Joan. 

"Man!"  cried  the  milkmaids  in  a  breath,  "play  and  sing  to 
us!" 

"Oh,  maidens,"  answered  Martin  merrily,  "every  tune  de- 
serves its  fee.  But  don't  look  so  troubled — my  hire  shall  be 
of  the  lightest.  Let  me  see !  you  shall  fetch  me  the  flower  from 
the  hair  of  your  little  mistress  who  sits  weeping  on  the  coping 
with  her  face  hidden  in  her  shining  locks." 

At  this  the  milkmaids  clapped  their  hands,  and  little  Joan, 
running  to  the  Well-House,  with  a  touch  like  thistledown 
drew  from  the  weeper's  yellow  hair  a  yellow  primrose.  She 
brought  it  to  the  gate  and  laid  it  in  Martin's  hand. 

"Now  you  will  play  for  us,  won't  you?"  said  she.  "A  dance 
for  a  spring  morning  when  the  leaves  dance  on  the  apple-trees." 

Then  Martin  tuned  his  lute  and  played  and  sang  as  follows, 
while  the  girls  took  hands  and  danced  in  a  green  chain  among 
the  twisty  trees. 

The  green  leaf  dances  now, 

The  green   leaf  dances  noiv, 

The  green  leaf  ivith  its  tilted  tilings 

Dances   on   the   hough. 

And  every  rustling  air 

Says,  I've  caught  you,  caught  you, 

Leaf  ivith   tilted  ivings. 

Caught  you   in   a   snare! 

Whose  snare f     Spring's, 

That  bound  you  to  the  bough 

Where  you   dance   noiv, 

Dance,   but   cannot  fly. 

For   all   your   tilted  ivings 

Pointing    to    the    sky: 

Where   like   martins  you  ivould  dart 

But  for  Spring's  delicious  art 

That   caught   you   to   the   bough, 

Caught,  yet  left  you  free 

To  dance  if  not  to  fly — oh  see! 

As   you   are   dancing   now. 

Dancing   on   the   hough, 

Dancing   on   the   bough, 

Dancing  ivith  your  tilted  wrings 

On   the  apple-bough. 

Now  as  Martin  sang  and  the  milkmaids  danced,  it  seemed 
that  Gillian  in  her  prison  heard  and  saw  nothing  except  the 
music  and  the  movement  of  her  sorrows.     But  presently  she 


6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

raised  her  hand  and  touched  her  hair-band,  and  then  she  lifted 
up  the  fairest  face  Martin  had  ever  seen,  so  that  he  needs  must 
see  it  nearer;  and  he  took  the  green  gate  in  one  stride,  and  the 
green  dancers  never  observed  him.  Then  Gillian's  tender 
mouth  parted  like  an  opening  quince-blossom,  and — 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother!"  she  said,  "if  you  had  only  lived 
they  would  not  have  stolen  the  flower  from  my  hair  while  I 
sat  weeping." 

Above  her  head  a  whispering  voice  made  answer,  "Oh, 
Daughter,  Daughter,  dry  your  sweet  eyes.  You  shall  wear 
this  other  flower  when  yours  is  gone  over  the  duckpond  to 
Adversane." 

And  lo !  a  second  primrose  dropped  out  of  the  skies  into  her 
lap.    And  that  day  the  lovely  Gillian  wept  no  more. 


PART  II 

IT  happened  that  on  an  afternoon  in  May  Martin  Pippin 
passed    again    through    Adversane,    and    as    he    passed    he 
thought,  "Now  certainly  I  have  been  here  before,"  but  he 
could  not  remember  when  or  how,  for  a  full  month  had  run 
under  the  bridges  of  time  since  then,  and  man's  memory  is  not 
infinite. 

But  in  walking  by  a  certain  garden  he  heard  a  sound  of  sob- 
bing; and  curiosity,  of  which  he  was  largely  made,  caused  him 
to  climb  the  old  brick  wall  that  he  might  discover  the  cause. 
What  he  saw  from  his  perch  was  a  garden  laid  out  in  neat  plots 
between  grassy  walks  edged  with  double  daisies,  red,  white  and 
pink,  or  bordered  with  sweet  herbs,  or  with  lavender  and  wall- 
flower; and  here  and  there  were  cordons  of  fruit-trees,  apple, 
plum  and  cherry,  and  in  a  sunny  corner  a  clump  of  flowering 
currant  heavy  with  humming  bees;  and  against  the  inner  walls 
flat  pear-trees  stretched  their  long  straight  lines,  like  music- 
staves  whereon  a  lovely  melody  was  written  in  notes  of  snow. 
And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  stood  a  very  young  man  with  a 
face  as  brown  as  a  berry.  He  was  spraying  the  cordons  with 
quassia-water.  But  whenever  he  filled  his  syringe  he  wept  so 
many  tears  above  the  bucket  that  it  was  always  full  to  the 
brim. 

When  he  had  watched  this  happen  several  times,  Martin 
hailed  the  young  man. 

"Young  master!"  said  Martin,  "the  eater  of  your  plums 
will  need  sugar  thereto,  and  that's  flat." 

The  young  man  turned  his  eyes  upward. 

"There  is  not  sugar  enough  in  all  the  world,"  he  answered, 
"to  sweeten  the  fruits  that  are  watered  by  my  sorrows." 

"Then  here  is  a  waste  of  good  quassia,"  said  Martin,  "and 
I  think  your  name  is  Robin  Rue." 

"It  is,"  said  Robin,  "and  you  are  Martin  Pippin,  to  whom  I 
owe  more  than  to  any  man  living.  But  the  primrose  you 
brought  me  is  dead  this  five-and-twenty  days." 

"And  what  of  your  Gillian  ?" 

7 


8    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Alas!  how  can  I  tell  what  of  her?  She  is  where  she  was 
and  I  am  where  I  am.    What  will  become  of  me?" 

"There  are  riddles  without  answers,"  observed  Martin. 

"I  can  answer  this  one.  I  shall  fall  into  a  decline  and  die. 
And  yet  I  ask  no  more  than  to  send  her  a  ring  to  wear  on  her 
finger,  and  have  her  ring  to  wear  on  mine." 

"Would  this  satisfy  you?"  asked  Martin. 

"I  could  then  cling  to  life,"  said  Robin  Rue,  "long  enough 
at  least  to  finish  my  spraying." 

"We  may  praise  God  as  much  for  small  mercies,"  said  Mar- 
tin pleasantly,  "as  for  great  ones;  and  trees  must  not  be 
blighted  that  were  appointed  to  fruit." 

So  saying,  he  unstraddled  his  legs  and  dropped  into  the  road, 
tickled  an  armadillo  with  his  toe,  twirled  the  silver  ring  on  his 
finger,  and  went  away  singing. 

"Maidens,"  said  Joscelyn,  "here  is  that  man  come  again." 

Maids'  memories  are  longer  than  men's.  At  all  events,  the 
milkmaids  knew  instantly  to  whom  she  referred,  although 
nearly  a  month  had  passed  since  his  coming. 

"Has  he  his  lute  with  him?"  asked  little  Joan. 

"He  has.  And  he  is  giving  cake  to  the  ducks;  they  take  it 
from  his  hand.     Man,  go  away  immediately!" 

Martin  Pippin  propped  his  elbows  on  the  little  gate,  and 
looked  smiling  into  the  orchard,  all  pink  and  white  blossom. 
The  trees  that  had  been  longest  in  bloom  were  white  cascades 
of  flower,  others  there  were  flushed  like  the  cheek  of  a  sleep- 
ing child,  and  some  were  still  studded  with  rose-red  buds.  The 
grass  was  high  and  full  of  spotted  orchis,  and  tall  wild  parsley 
spread  its  nets  of  lace  almost  abreast  of  the  lowest  boughs  of 
blossom.  So  that  the  milkmaids  stood  embraced  in  meeting 
flowers,  waist-deep  in  the  orchard  growth:  all  gowned  in  pink 
lawn  with  loose  white  sleeves,  and  their  faces  flushed  it  may 
have  been  with  the  pink  linings  to  their  white  bonnets,  or  with 
the  evening  rose  in  the  west,  or  with  I  know  not  what. 

"Go  away!"  they  cried  at  the  intruder.     "Go  away!" 

"My  rose-white  maidens,"  said  Martin,  "will  you  not  let 
me  into  your  orchard?  For  the  stars  are  rising  with  the  dew, 
and  the  hour  is  at  peace.  Let  me  in  to  rest,  dear  maidens — if 
maidens  indeed  you  be,  and  not  six  blossoms  fallen  from  the 
apple-boughs." 

"You  cannot  come  in,"  said  Joscelyn,  "lest  you  are  the  bearer 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    9 

of  a  word  to  our  master's  daughter  who  sits  weeping  in  the 
Well-House." 

"From  whom  should  I  bear  her  a  word?"  asked  Martin  Pip- 
pin in  great  amazement. 

The  milkmaids  cast  down  their  eyes,  and  little  Joan  said, 
•'It  is  a  secret." 

Martin  :  I  will  inquire  no  further.  But  shall  I  not  play 
a  little  on  my  lute?  It  is  as  good  an  hour  for  song  and  dance 
as  any  other,  and  I  will  make  a  tune  for  a  sunny  May  evening, 
and  you  shall  sway  among  the  grasses  like  any  flower  on  the 
bough. 

Jane:     In  my  opinion  that  can  hurt  nobody. 

Jessica:     Gillian  wouldn't  care  two  pins. 

Joyce:  She  would  utter  no  word  though  we  tripped  it  for 
a  week. 

JoscELYN :    So  long  as  he  keeps  to  his  side  of  the  hedge — 

Jennifer:    — and  we  to  ours. 

"Oh,  I  do  love  to  dance!"  cried  little  Joan. 

"Man!"  they  commanded  him  as  one  voice,  "play  and  sing 
to  us  insjtai  cly!" 

"My  pretty  ones,"  laughed  Martin  Pippin,  "songs  are  as 
light  as  air,  but  worth  more  than  pearls  and  diamonds.  What 
will  you  give  me  for  my  song?  Wait,  now! — I  have  it.  You 
shall  fetch  me  the  ring  from  the  finger  of  your  little  mistress, 
who  sits  hidden  beneath  the  fountain  of  her  own  bright  tresses." 

The  milkmaids  at  these  words  nodded  gayly,  and  little  Joan 
tip-toed  to  the  Well-House,  and  slipped  the  ring  from  Gil- 
lian's finger  as  lightly  as  a  daisy  may  be  slipped  from  its  fellow 
on  the  chain.  Then  she  ran  with  it  to  the  gate,  and  Martin 
held  up  his  little  finger,  and  she  put  it  on,  saying: 

"Now  you  will  keep  your  promise,  honey-sweet  singer,  and 
play  a  dance  for  a  May  evening  when  the  blossom  blows  for 
happiness  on  the  apple-trees." 

So   Martin   Pippin  tuned  his  lute  and   sang  what  follows, 

while  the  girls  floated  in  ones  and  twos  among  the  orchard 

grass : 

A -floating,  a-floating,  nvhat  saiv  I  a- floating? 
Fairy  ships  rocking  ivith  pink  sails  and  ivkite 
Smoothly  as  sivans  on  a  river  of  light 

Saiv  I  a-floating? 
No,  it  ivas   apple-hloom,  rosy  and  fair, 
Softly  obeying  the  nod  of  the  air 

I  saiu  a-floating. 


lo    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

A-floating,  a-ftoating,  luhat  saiu  I  a-floatingf 
JVhite  clouds  at  eventide  bloivn  to  and  fro 
Lightly  as  bubbles  the  cherubim  bloiv, 

Saiv  I  a-floating? 
No,  it  laas  pretty  girls  goiuned  like  a  floiuer 
Bloivn  in  a  ring  round  their  oivn  apple-bovjer 

I  saiu  a-floating. 
Or  ivas  it  my  dream,  my  dream  only — ivho  knoiusf — 
As  frail  as  a  snoivflake,  as  flushed  as  a  rose, 

I  saiu  a-floating? 
A-floaiing,  a-floating,  ixihat  saiv  I  a-floating? 

Martin  sang,  and  the  milkmaids  danced,  and  Gillian  in  her 
prison  only  heard  the  dropping  of  her  tears,  and  only  saw  the 
rainbow  prisms  on  her  lashes.  But  presently  she  laid  her  cheek 
against  her  hand,  and  missed  a  touch  she  knew;  and  on  that 
revealed  her  lovely  face  so  full  of  woe,  that  Martin  needs  must 
comfort  her  or  weep  himself.  And  the  dancers  took  no  heed 
when  he  made  one  step  across  the  gate  and  went  under  the 
trees  to  the  Well-House. 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother!"  sighed  Gillian,  "if  you  had  only 
lived  they  would  never  have  stolen  the  ring  from  my  finger 
while  I  sat  heartsick." 

Above  her  head  a  whispering  voice  replied,  "Oh,  Daughter, 
Daughter,  mend  your  dear  heart!  You  shall  wear  this  other 
ring  when  yours  is  gone  over  the  duckpond  to  Adversane." 

Oh  wonder!  out  of  the  very  heavens  fell  a  silver  ring  into 
her  bosom.  And  if  that  night  Gillian  slept  not,  neither 
wept  she. 


PART  III 

IN  the  beginning  of  the  first  week  in  September  Martin  Pip- 
pin came  once  more  to  Adversane,  and  he  said  to  himself 
when  he  saw  it: 

"Now  this  is  the  prettiest  hamlet  I  ever  had  the  luck  to  light 
on  in  my  wanderings.  And  if  chance  or  fortune  will,  I  shall 
some  day  come  this  way  again." 

While  he  was  thinking  these  thoughts,  his  ears  were  assailed 
by  groans  and  sighs,  so  that  he  wet  his  finger  and  held  it  up  to 
find  which  way  the  wind  blew  on  this  burning  day  of  blue 
and  gold.  But  no  wind  coming,  he  sought  some  other  agency 
for  these  gusts,  and  discovered  it  in  a  wheat-field  where  was  a 
young  fellow  stooking  sheaves.  A  very  young  fellow  he  was, 
turned  copper  by  the  sun;  and  as  he  stooked  he  heaved  such 
sighs  that  for  every  shock  he  stooked  two  tumbled  at  his  feet. 
When  Martin  had  seen  this  happen  more  than  once  he  called 
aloud  to  the  harvester. 

"Young  master!"  said  Martin,  "the  mill  that  grinds  your 
grain  will  need  no  wind  to  its  sails,  and  that's  flat." 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  his  labors  to  reply. 

"There  are  no  mill-stones  in  all  the  world,"  said  he,  "strong 
enough  to  grind  the  grain  of  my  grief." 

"Then  I  would  save  these  gales  till  they  may  be  put  to  more 
use,"  remarked  Martin,  "and  if  I  remember  rightly  you  wear 
a  lady's  ring  on  your  little  finger,  though  I  cannot  remember 
her  name  or  yours." 

"Her  heavenly  name  is  Gillian,"  said  the  youth,  "and  mine 
is  Robin  Rue." 

"And  are  you  wedded  yet?"  asked  Martin. 

"Wedded  ?"  he  cried.  "Have  you  forgotten  that  she  is  locked 
with  six  keys  inside  her  father's  Well-House?" 

"But  this  was  long  ago,"  said  Martin.     "Is  she  there  yet?" 

"She  is,"  said  Robin  Rue,  "and  here  am  I." 

"Well,  all  states  must  end  some  time,"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

"Even  life,"  sighed  Robin,  "and  therefore  before  the  month 
is  out  I  shall  wilt  and  be  laid  in  the  earth." 

II 


12    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"That  would  be  a  pity,"  said  Martin.  "Can  nothing  save 
you?" 

"Nothing  but  the  keys  to  her  prison,  and  they  are  in  the 
keeping  of  them  that  will  not  give  them  up." 

"I  remember,"  said  Martin.     "Six  milkmaids." 

"With  hearts  of  flint!"  cried  Robin. 

"Sparks  may  be  struck  from  flint,"  said  Martin,  in  his  in- 
consequential way.  "But  tell  me,  if  Gillian's  prison  were  in- 
deed unlocked,  would  all  be  well  with  you  for  ever?" 

"Oh,"  said  Robin  Rue,  "if  her  prison  were  unlocked  and  the 
prisoner  in  these  arms,  this  wheat  should  be  flour  for  a  wedding- 
cake." 

"It  is  the  best  of  all  cakes,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "and  the 
grain  that  is  destined  thereto  must  not  rot  in  the  husk." 

With  these  words  he  strolled  out  of  the  cornfield,  gathered 
a  harebell,  rang  it  so  loudly  in  the  ear  of  a  passing  rabbit  that 
it  is  said  never  to  have  stopped  running  till  it  found  itself  in 
France,  and  went  up  the  road  humming  and  thrumming  his 
lute. 

On  the  road  he  met  a  Gypsy. 

"Maids,"  said  Joscelyn,  "somebody  is  at  the  gate." 

The  milkmaids,  who  were  eating  apples,  came  clustering 
about  her  instantly. 

"Is  it  a  man?"  asked  little  Joan,  pausing  between  her  bites. 

"No,  thank  all  our  stars,"  said  Joscelyn,  "it  is  a  gypsy." 

The  milkmaids  withdrew,  their  fears  allayed.  Joan  bit  her 
apple  and  said,  "It  puckers  my  mouth." 

Joyce:    Mine's  sour. 

Jessica:    Mine's  hard. 

Jane:     Mine's  bruised. 

Jennifer:    There's  a  maggot  in  mine. 

They  threw  their  apples  away. 

"Who'll  buy  trinkets?"  said  the  Gypsy  at  the  gate. 

"What  have  you  to  sell?"  asked  Joscelyn. 

"Knick-knacks  and  gew-gaws  of  all  sorts.  Rings  and  rib- 
bons, mirrors  and  beads,  silken  shoe-strings  and  colored  lacings, 
sweetmeats  and  scents  and  gilded  pins;  silver  buckles,  belts  and 
bracelets,  gay  kerchiefs,  spotted  ones,  striped  ones;  ivory  bob- 
bins, sprigs  of  coral,  and  sea-shells  from  far  places,  they'll  mur- 
mur you  secrets  o'  nights  if  you  put  'em  under  your  pillow; 
here  are  patterns  for  patchwork,  and  here's  a  sheet  of  ballads, 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     13 

and  here's  a  pack  of  cards  for  telling  fortunes.  What  will  ye 
buy?  A  dream-book,  a  crystal,  a  charmed  powder  that  shall 
make  you  see  your  sweetheart  in  the  dark?" 

"Oh !"  six  voices  cried  in  one. 

"Or  this  other  powder  shall  charm  him  to  love  you,  if  he 
love  you  not?" 

"Fie!"  exclaimed  Joscelyn  severely.  "We  want  no  love- 
charms." 

"I  warrant  you!"  laughed  the  Gypsy.    "What  will  ye  buy?" 

Jennifer:     I'll  have  this  flasket  of  scent. 

Joyce:     I'll  have  this  looking-glass. 

Jessica:    And  I  this  necklet  of  beads. 

Jane:    A  pair  of  shoe-buckles,  if  you  please. 

Joan  :    This  bunch  of  ribbons  for  me. 

Joscelyn:     Have  you  a  corset-lace  of  yellow  silk? 

The  Gypsy:  Here's  for  you  and  you.  No  love-charms,  no. 
Here's  for  you  and  you  and  you.  I  warrant,  no  love-charms! 
Ay,  I've  a  yellow  lace,  'twill  keep  you  in  as  jight  as  jealousy, 
my  pretty.  Out  upon  all  love-charms! — And  what  will  she 
have  that  sits  crouched  in  the  Well-House? 

"Oh,  Gypsy!"  cried  Joscelyn,  "have  you  among  your  charms 
one  that  will  make  a  maid  fall  out  of  love?" 

"N?y,  nay,"  said  the  Gypsy,  growing  suddenly  grave.  "That 
is  a  charm  takes  more  black  art  than  I  am  mistress  of.  I  know 
indeed  of  but  one  remedy.    Is  the  case  so  bad  ?" 

"She  has  been  shut  into  the  Well-House  to  cure  her  of  lov- 
ing," said  Joscelyn,  "and  in  six  months  she  has  scarcely  ceased 
to  weep,  and  has  never  uttered  a  word.  If  you  know  the 
physic  that  shall  heal  her  of  her  foolishness,  I  pray  you  tell  us 
of  it.  For  it  is  extremely  dull  in  this  orchard,  with  nothing 
to  do  except  watch  the  changes  of  the  apple-trees,  and  mean- 
while the  farmstead  lacks  water  and  milk,  there  being  no  en- 
try to  the  well  nor  maids  to  milk  the  cows.  Daily  comes  Old 
Gillman  to  tell  us  how,  from  morning  till  night,  he  is  forced 
to  drink  cider  and  ale,  and  so  the  farm  goes  to  rack  and  ruin, 
and  all  because  he  has  a  lovesick  daughter.  What  is  your 
remedy?    He  would  give  you  gold  and  silver  for  it." 

"I  do  not  know  if  it  can  be  bought,"  said  the  Gypsy,  "I  do 
not  even  know  if  it  exists.  But  when  a  maid  broods  too  much 
on  her  own  love-tale,  the  like  weapons  only  will  vanquish  her 
thoughts.  Nothing  but  a  new  love-tale  will  overcome  her 
broodings,   and  where  the  case  is  obstinate  one  only  will  not 


14    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN'  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

suffice.  You  say  she  has  pined  upon  her  love  six  months.  Let 
her  be  told  six  brand-new  love-tales,  tales  which  no  woman 
ever  heard  before,  and  I  think  she  will  be  cured.  These  coun-' 
ter-poisons  will  so  work  in  her  that  little  by  little  her  own  case 
will  be  obliterated  from  her  blood.  But  for  my  part  I  doubt 
whether  there  be  six  untold  love-tales  left  on  earth,  and  if  there 
be  I  know  not  who  keeps  them  buttoned  under  his  jacket." 

"Alas!"  cried  Joscelyn,  "then  we  must  stay  here  for  ever 
until  we  die." 

"It  looks  very  like  it,"  said  the  Gypsy,  "and  my  wares  are  a 
penny  apiece." 

So  saying  she  collected  her  moneys  and  withdrew,  and  for  all 
1  know  was  never  seen  again  by  man,  woman,  or  child. 

"My  apple-gold  maidens,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  leaning  on 
the  gate  in  the  bright  night,  "may  I  come  into  your  orchard?" 

As  he  addressed  them  he  gazed  with  delight  at  the  enclosure. 
By  the  light  of  the  Queen  Moon,  now  at  her  full  in  heaven, 
he  saw  that  the  orchard  grass  was  clipped,  and  patterned  with 
small  clover,  but  against  the  hedges  rose  wild  banks  of  meadow- 
sweet and  yarrow  and  the  jolly  ragwort,  and  briony  with  its 
heart-shaped  leaf  and  berry  as  red  as  heart's-blood  made  a  bower 
above  them  all.  And  all  the  apple-trees  were  decked  with  little 
golden  moons  hanging  in  clusters  on  the  drooping  boughs,  and 
glimmering  in  the  recesses  of  the  leaves.  Under  each  tree  a 
ring  of  windfalls  lay  in  the  grass.  But  prettiest  sight  of  all 
was  the  ring  of  girls  in  yellow  gowns  and  caps,  that  lay  around 
the  midmost  apple-tree  like  fallen  fruit. 

"Dear  maidens,"  pleaded  the  Minstrel,  "let  me  come  in." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  six  milkmaids  rose  up  in  the 
grass  like  golden  fountains.  And  fountains  indeed  they  were, 
for  their  eyes  were  running  over  with  tears. 

"We  did  not  hear  you  coming,"  said  little  Joan. 

"Go  away  at  once!"  commanded  Joscelyn. 

Then  all  the  girls  cried  "Go  away!"  together. 

"My  apple-gold  maidens,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "I  entreat 
you  to  let  me  in.  For  the  moon  is  up,  and  it  is  time  to  be  sleep- 
ing or  waking,  in  sweet  company.  So  I  beseech  you  to  adrnit 
me,  dear  maidens — if  maidens  in  truth  you  be,  and  not  six  ap- 
ples bobbed  off  their  stems." 

"You  may  not  come  in,"  said  Joscelyn,  "in  case  you  should 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     15 

release  our  master's  daughter,  who  sits  in  the  Well-House  pin- 
ing to  follow  her  heart." 

"Why,  whither  would  she  follow  it?"  asked  Martin  much 
surprised. 

The  milkmaids  turned  their  faces  away,  and  little  Joan  mur- 
mured, "It  is  a  secret." 

Martin:  I  will  put  chains  on  my  thoughts.  But  shall  I 
not  sing  you  a  tune  you  may  dance  to  ?  I  will  make  you  a  song 
for  an  August  night,  when  the  moon  rocks  her  way  up  and 
down  the  cradle  of  the  sky,  and  you  shall  rock  on  earth  like 
any  apple  on  the  twig. 

Jane:     For  my  part,  I  see  nothing  against  it. 

Jessica:    Gillian  won't  care  little  apples. 

Joyce  :  She  would  not  hear  though  we  danced  the  round  of 
thi  year. 

JoscELYN :    So  long  as  he  does  not  come  in — 

Jennifer:    — or  we  go  out. 

"Oh,  let  us  dance,  do  let  us  dance!"  cried  little  Joan. 

"Man,"  they  importuned  him  in  a  single  breath,  "play  for 
us  and  sing  for  us,  as  quickly  as  you  can !" 

"Sweet  ones,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  shaking  his  head,  "songs 
must  be  paid  for.  And  yet  I  do  not  know  what  to  ask  you, 
some  trifle  in  kind  it  should  be.  Why,  now,  I  have  it!  if  I  give 
you  the  keys  to  the  dance,  give  me  the  keys  to  your  little  mis- 
tress, that  I  may  keep  her  secure  from  following  her  heart  like 
a  bird  of  passage,  whither  it's  no  business  of  mine  to  ask." 

At  this  request,  made  so  gayly  and  so  carelessly,  the  girls  all 
looked  at  one  another  in  consternation.  Then  Joscelyn  drew 
herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and  pointing  with  her  arm  straight 
across  the  duckpond  she  cried: 

"Minstrel,  begone!" 

And  the  six  girls,  turning  their  backs  upon  him,  moved  away 
into  the  shadows  of  the  moon. 

"Well-a-day !"  sighed  Martin  Pippin,  "how  a  fool  may  trip 
and  never  know  it  till  his  nose  hits  the  earth.  1  will  sing  to 
you  for  nothing." 

But  the  girls  did  not  answer. 

Then  Martin  touched  his  lute  and  sang  as  follows,  so  softly 
and  sweetly  that  they,  not  regarding,  hardly  knew  the  sound 
of  his  song  from  the  heavy-sweet  scent  of  the  ungathered  ap- 
ples over  their  heads. 


i6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Toss  me  your  golden  ball,  laughing  maid,  lovely  maid, 

Lovely  maid,  laughing  maid,  loss  me  your  ball! 

I'll  catch  it  and  throvj  it,  and  hide  it  and  show  it, 

And  spin  it  to  heaven  and  not  let  it  fall. 

Boy,  run  axvay  with  you!     I  will  not  play  with  you — 

This  is  no  ball! 
We  are  too  old  to  be  playing  at  ball. 

Toss  me  the  golden  sun,  laughing  maid,  lovely  maid, 
Lovely  maid,  laughing  maid,  toss  me  the  sun! 
I'll  wheel  it,  I'll  whirl  it,  I'll  twist  it  and  twirl  it 
Till  cocks  crow  at  midnight  and  day  breaks  at  one. 
Boy,  I'll  not  sport  with  you!    Boy,  to  be  short  with  you. 

This  is  no  sun! 
We  are  too  young  to  play  tricks  with  the  sun. 

Toss  me  your  golden  toy,  laughing  maid,  lovely  maid. 

Lovely  maid,  laughing  maid,  toss   me  your  toy! 

Ifs  all  one  to  me,  girl,  whatever  it  be,  girl 

So  long  as  it's  round  that's  enough  for  a  boy. 

Boy,  come  and  catch  it  then! — there  now!  don't  snatch  it  then! 

Here  comes  your  toy! 
Apples  were  made  for  a  girl  and  a  boy. 

There  was  no  sound  or  movement  from  the  girls  in  the 
shadows. 

'Tarewell,  then,"  said  Martin.  "I  must  carry  my  tunes  and 
tales  elsewhere." 

Like  pebbles  from  a  catapult  the  milkmaids  shot  to  the  gate. 

"Tales?"  cried  Jessica. 

"Do  you  know  tales?"  exclaimed  Jennifer. 

"What  kind  of  tales?"  demanded  Jane. 

"Love-tales?"  panted  Joyce. 

"Six  of  them?"  urged  little  Joan. 

"A  thousand!"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

Joscelyn's  hand  lay  on  the  bolt. 

"Man,"  she  said,  "come  in." 

She  opened  the  wicket,  and  Martin  Pippin  walked  into  the 
Apple-Orchard. 


PRELUDE  TO  THE  FIRST  TALE 

**    A    ND  now,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "what  exactly  do  you 

/~\     require  of  me?" 

"If  you  pleasQf"  said  little  Joan,  "you  are  to  tell  us 
a  love-story  that  has  never  been  told  before." 

"But  we  have  reason  to  fear,"  added  Jane,  "that  there  is 
no  such  story  left  in  all  the  world." 

"^There  you  are  wrong,"  said  Martin,  "for  on  the  contrary 
no  love-story  has  ever  been  told  twice.  I  never  heard  any  tale 
of  lovers  that  did  not  seem  to  me  as  new  as  the  world  on  its 
first  morning.     I  am  glad  you  have  a  taste  for  love-stories." 

"We  have  not,"  said  Joscelyn,  very  quickly. 

"No,  indeed !"  cried  her  five  fellows. 

"Then  shall  it  be  some  other  kind  of  tale?" 

"No  other  kind  will  do,"  said  Joscelyn,  still  more  quickly. 

"We  must  all  bear  our  burdens,"  said  Martin;  "so  let  us 
make  ourselves  as  happy  as  we  can  in  an  apple-tree,  and  when 
the  tale  becomes  too  little  to  your  taste  you  shall  munch  apples 
and  forget  it." 

"Will  you  sit  in  the  swing?"  asked  Jennifer,  pointing  to  the 
midmost  apple-tree,  which  was  the  largest  in  the  orchard,  and 
had  a  little  swing  hanging  from  a  long  upper  limb. 

Close  to  the  apple-tree,  a  branch  of  which  indeed  brushed 
its  mossed  pent-roof,  stood  the  Well-House.  It  had  a  round 
wall  of  old  red  bricks  growing  green  with  time,  and  a  pillar  of 
oak  rose  up  at  each  point  of  the  compass  to  support  the  pent. 
Between  the  south  and  west  pillars  was  a  green  door,  held  by  a 
rusty  chain  and  a  padlock  with  six  keyholes.  The  little  circu- 
lar court  within  was  flagged,  and  three  rings  of  worn  steps 
led  to  the  well-head  and  the  green  wooden  bucket  inverted  on 
the  coping.  Between  the  cracks  of  the  flags  sprang  grass,  and 
pink-starred  centaury,  and  even  a  trail  of  mallow  sprawled  over 
the  steps  where  Gillian  lay  in  tears,  as  though  to  wreathe  her 
head  with  its  striped  blooms. 

"What  luck  you  have,"  said  Martin,  "not  only  to  live  in  an 
orchard,  but  to  have  a  swing  to  swing  in." 

17 


i8     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"It  is  our  one  diversion,"  said  Joyce,  "except  when  you  come 
to  play  to  us." 

"It  is  delightful  to  swing,"  said  little  Joan  invitingly. 

"So  it  is,"  agreed  Martin,  "and  I  beg  you  to  sit  in  the  swing 
while  I  sit  on  this  bough,  and  when  I  see  your  eyelids  growing 
heavy  with  my  tale  I  wall  start  the  rope  and  rouse  you — 
thus!" 

So  saying,  he  lifted  the  littlest  milkmaid  lightly  into  her 
perch  and  gave  her  so  vigorous  a  push  that  she  cried  out  with 
delight,  as  at  one  moment  the  point  of  her  shoe  cleared  the 
door  of  the  Well-House,  and  at  the  next  her  heels  were  up 
among  the  apples.  Then  Martin  ensconced  himself  upon  a 
lower  limb  of  the  tree,  which  had  a  mossy  cushion  against  the 
trunk  as  though  nature  or  time  had  designed  it  for  a  teller  of 
tales.  The  milkmaids  sprang  quickly  into  other  branches 
around  him,  shaking  a  hail  of  sweet  apples  about  his  head. 
What  he  could  he  caught,  and  dropped  into  the  swinger's  lap, 
whence  from  time  to  time  he  helped  himself;  and  she  did  like- 
wise. 

"Begin,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"A  thought  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "and 
it  is  that  my  tale  may  disturb  your  master's  daughter." 

"We  desire  it  to,"  said  Joscelyn  looking  down  on  the  Well- 
House  and  the  yellow  head  of  Gillian.  "The  fear  is  rather 
that  you  may  not  arouse  her  attention,  so  I  hope  that  when  you 
speak  you  will  speak  clearly.  For  to  tell  you  the  truth  we  have 
heard  that  nothing  but  six  love-tales  will  wash  from  her  mind 
the  image  of — " 

"Of  whom?"  inquired  Martin  as  she  paused. 

"It  does  not  matter  whom,"  said  Joscelyn,  "but  I  think 
the  time  is  ripe  to  confess  to  you  that  the  silly  damsel  is  in 
love." 

"The  world  is  so  full  of  wonders,"  said  Martin  Pippin, 
"that  one  ceases  to  be  surprised  at  almost  anything." 

"Is  love  then,"  said  little  Joan,  "so  rare  a  thing  in  the 
world?" 

"The  rarest  of  all  things,"  answered  Martin,  looking  gravely 
into  her  eyes.     "It  is  as  rare  as  flowers  in  Spring." 

"I   am  glad  of  that,"  said  Joan;  while  Joscelyn   objected, 
"But  nothing  is  commoner." 
r      "Do  you  think  so?"  said  Martin.     "Perhaps  you  are  right. 
'  Yet  Spring  after  Spring  the  flowers  quicken  my  heart  as  though 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     19 

I  were  perceiving  them  for  the  first  time  in  my  life — )'es,  even  J 
the  very  commonest  of  them." 

"What  do  you  call  the  commonest?"  asked  Jessica. 

"Could  any  be  commoner,"  said  Martin,  "than  Robin-run-by- 
the-Wall?  Yet  I  think  he  has  touched  many  a  heart  in  his 
day." 

And  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  weeper  in  the  Well-House,  Mar- 
tin Pippin  tried  his  lute  and  sang  this  song. 

Run    by   the  ixjall,  Robin, 

Run  by  the  nvall! 

You   might  hear  a  secret 

A  Lady  once  let  fall. 

If  you   hear  her  secret 

Tell  it  in  my  ear, 

And  I'll  <n:hisper  you  another 

For  her  to  overhear. 

The  weeper  stirred  very  slightly. 

"The  song  makes  little  sense,"  said  Joscelyn,  "and  would 
make  none  at  all  if  you  called  this  flower  by  its  right  name  of 
Jack-in-the-  H  edge. " 

"Let  us  do  so,"  said  Martin  readily,  "and  then  the  non- 
sense will  run  this  way  as  easily  as  that." 

Hide  in  the  hedge,  Jack, 
Hide  in  the  hedge! 
You   might  catch  a  letter 
Dropped  over  the  edge. 
If  you   catch  her  letter 
Slip  it  in  my  hand, 
And  I'll  ivrite  another 
That  she'll  understand. 

As  he  concluded,  Gillian  lifted  up  her  head,  and  putting  her 
hair  from  her  face  gazed  over  the  duckpond  beyond  the  green 
wicket. 

"The  lady,"  said  Joscelyn  with  some  impatience,  "who  un- 
derstands the  letter  must  outdo  me  in  wits,  for  I  find  no  under- 
standing whatever  in  your  silly  song.  However,  it  seems  to 
have  brought  our  master's  daughter  out  of  her  lethargy,  and 
the  moment  is  favorable  to  your  tale.  Therefore  without  fur- 
ther ado  I  beg  you  to  begin." 

"I  will,"  said  Martin,  "and  on  my  part  entreat  your  for- 
bearance while  I  relate  to  you  the  storj'  of  The  King's  Barn." 


THE  KING'S  BARN 

THERE  was  once,  dear  maidens,  a  King  in  Sussex  of 
whose  kingdom  and  possessions  nothing  remained  but  a 
single  Barn  and  a  change  of  linen.  It  was  no  fault  of 
his.  He  was  a  very  young  king  when  he  came  into  his  heritage, 
and  it  was  already  dwindled  to  these  proportions.  Once  his 
fathers  had  owned  a  beautiful  city  on  the  banks  of  the  Adur, 
and  all  the  lands  to  the  north  and  the  west  were  theirs,  for  a 
matter  of  several  miles  indeed,  including  many  strange  things 
that  were  on  them:  such  as  the  Wapping  Thorp,  the  Huddle 
Stone,  the  Bush  Hovel  where  a  Wise  Woman  lived,  and  the 
Guess  Gate;  likewise  those  two  communities  known  as  the 
Doves  and  the  Hawking  Sopers,  whose  ways  of  life  were  as 
opposite  as  the  Poles.  The  Doves  were  simple  men,  and  reli- 
gious; but  the  Hawking  Sopers  were  indeed  a  wild  and  rowdy 
crew,  and  it  is  said  that  the  King's  father  had  hunted  and  drunk 
with  them  until  his  estates  were  gambled  away  and  his  affairs 
decayed  of  neglect,  and  nothing  was  left  at  last  but  the  soli- 
tary Barn  which  marked  the  northern  boundary  of  his  pos- 
sessions. And  here,  when  his  father  was  dead,  our  young  King 
sat  on  a  tussock  of  hay  with  his  golden  crown  on  his  head  and 
his  golden  scepter  in  his  hand,  and  ate  bread  and  cheese  thrice 
a  day,  throwing  the  rind  to  the  rats  and  the  crumbs  to  the 
swallows.  His  name  was  William,  and  beyond  the  rats  and  the 
swallows  he  had  no  other  company  than  a  nag  called  Pepper, 
whom  he  fed  daily  from  the  tussock  he  sat  on. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  week  he  said : 

"It  is  a  dull  life.  What  should  a  King  do  in  a  Barn  ?" 
^  So  saying,  he  pulled  the  last  handful  of  hay  from  under  him, 
rising  up  quickly  before  he  had  time  to  fall  down,  and  gave  it 
to  his  nag;  and  next  he  tied  up  his  scepter  and  crown  with  his 
change  of  linen  in  a  blue  handkerchief;  and  last  he  fetched  a 
rope  and  a  sack  and  put  them  on  Pepper  for  bridle  and  saddle, 
and  rode  out  of  the  Barn  leaving  the  door  to  swing. 

"Let  us  go  south,  Pepper,"  said  he,  "for  it  is  warmer  to  ride 
into  the  sun  than  away  from  it,  and  so  we  shall  visit  my 
Father's  lands  that  might  have  been  mine." 

20 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    21 

South  they  went,  with  the  great  Downs  ahead  of  them,  and 
who  knew  what  beyond?  And  first  they  came  to  the  Hawking 
Sopers,  who  when  they  saw  William  approaching  tumbled  out 
of  their  dwelling  with  a  great  racket,  crying  to  him  to  come 
and  drink  and  play  with  them. 

"Not  I,"  said  he.  "For  so  I  should  lose  my  Barn  to  you,  and 
such  as  it  is  it  is  a  shelter,  and  my  only  one.  But  tell  me,  if 
you  can,  what  should  a  King  do  in  a  Barn?" 

"He  should  dance  in  it,"  said  they,  and  went  laughing  and 
singing  back  to  their  cups. 

"What  sort  of  advice  is  this,  Pepper?"  said  the  King.  "Shall 
we  try  elsewhere?" 

The  nag  whinnied  with  unusual  vehemence,  and  the  King, 
taking  this  for  yea,  and  not  observing  that  she  limped  as  she 
went,  rode  on  to  the  Doves:  the  gentle  gray-gowned  Brothers 
who  spent  their  days  in  pious  works  and  their  nights  in  medita- 
tion. Between  the  twelve  hours  of  twilight  and  dawn  they 
were  pledged  not  to  utter  speech,  but  the  King  arriving  there 
at  noon  they  welcomed  him  with  kind  words,  and  offered  him 
a  bowl  of  rice  and  milk. 

He  thanked  them,  and  when  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  put  to 
them  his  riddle. 

"What  should  a  King  do  in  a  Barn?" 

They  answered,  "He  should  pray  in  it." 

"This  may  be  good  advice,"  said  the  King.  "Pepper,  should 
we  go  further?" 

The  little  nag  whinnied  till  her  sides  shook,  which  the  King 
took,  as  before,  to  be  an  affirmative.  However,  because  it  was 
Sunday  he  remained  with  the  Doves  a  day  and  a  night,  and 
during  such  time  as  their  lips  were  not  sealed  they  urged  him 
to  become  one  of  them,  and  found  a  new  settlement  of  Brothers 
in  his  Barn.  He  spent  his  night  in  reflection,  but  by  morning 
had  come  to  no  decision. 

"To  what  better  use  could  you  dedicate  it?"  asked  the  Chief 
Brother,  who  was  known  as  the  Ringdove  because  he  was  the 
leader. 

"None  that  I  can  think  of,"  said  the  King,  "but  I  fear  I  am 
not  good  enough." 

"When  you  have  passed  our  initiation,"  said  the  Ringdove, 
"you  will  be." 

"Is  it  difficult?"  asked  William. 

"No,   it   is   very   easy,   and   can   be   accomplished   within   £• 


22    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

month.  You  have  only  to  ride  south  till  you  come  to  the  hills, 
on  the  highest  of  which  you  will  see  a  Ring  of  beech-trees. 
Under  the  hills  lies  the  little  village  of  Washington,  and  there 
you  may  dwell  in  comfort  through  the  week.  But  on  each  of 
the  four  Saturdays  of  the  lunar  month  you  must  mount  the 
hill  at  sunset  and  keep  a  vigil  among  the  beeches  till  sunrise. 
And  you  must  see  that  these  Saturdays  occur  on  the  four  quar- 
ters of  the  moon — once  when  she  is  in  her  crescent,  once  at  the 
half,  again  at  the  full,  and  lastly  when  she  is  waning." 

"And  is  this  all?"  said  William.     "It  sounds  very  simple." 

"Not  quite  all,  but  the  rest  is  nearly  as  simple.  You  have 
but  to  observe  four  rules.  First,  to  tell  no  living  soul  of  your 
resolve  during  the  month  of  initiation.  Second,  to  keep  )our 
vigil  always  between  the  two  great  beeches  in  the  middle  of  the 
Ring.  Third,  to  issue  forth  at  midnight  and  immerse  your 
head  in  the  Dewpond  which  lies  on  the  hilltop  to  the  west,  and 
having  done  so  to  return  to  your  watch  between  the  trees.  And 
fourth,  to  make  no  utterance  on  any  account  whatever  from 
sunset  to  sunrise." 

"Suppose  I  should  sneeze?"  inquired  the  King  anxiously. 

"There's  no  supposing  about  it,"  said  the  Ringdove. 
"Sneezing,  seeing  that  your  head  will  be  extremely  wet,  is  prac- 
tically inevitable.  But  the  rule  applies  only  to  such  utterance 
as  lies  within  human  control.  When  the  fourth  vigil  has  been 
successfully  accomplished,  return  to  us  for  a  blessing  and  the 
gray  robe  of  our  Order." 

"But  how,"  asked  the  King,  "during  my  vigils  shall  I  know 
when  midnight  is  due?" 

"In  the  third  quarter  after  eleven  a  bird  sings.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  its  song  go  forth  from  the  Ring,  and  at  the  ending 
plunge  your  head  into  the  Pond.  For  on  these  nights  the  bird 
sings  ceaselessly  for  fifteen  minutes,  but  stops  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  midnight." 

"And  is  this  really  all?" 

"This  is  all." 

"How  easy  it  is  to  become  good,"  said  William  cheerfully. 
"I  will  begin  at  once." 

So  impatient  was  he  to  become  a  Brother  Dove — 

(But  here  Martin  Pippin  broke  off  abruptly,  and  catching  the 
rope  of  the  swing  in  his  left  hand  he  gave  it  a  great  lurch. 
Joan:    Oh!  oh!  oh! 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    23 

Martin  :  I  perceive,  Mistress  Joan,  that  you  lose  interest 
in  my  story.    Your  mouth  droops. 

Joan  :  Oh,  no !  oh,  no !  it  is  only — it  is  a  very  nice  story — 
but — 

Martin  :  What  cannot  be  said  aloud  can  frequently  be 
whispered. 

He  leaned  his  ear  close  to  her  mouth,  and  very  shyly  she 
whispered  into  it. 

Joan  (whispering  very  shyly)  :  Why  must  the  young  King 
join  a  Brotherhood?  I  thought  .  .  .  this  was  to  be  a  .  .  . 
love  story. 

Martin  smiled  and  chose  an  apple  from  her  lap. 

"Keep  this  for  me,"  said  he,  "until  I  ask  for  it;  and  if  you  are 
not  then  satisfied,  neither  will  I  be.") 

So  impatient  (resumed  Martin)  was  the  King  to  enter  the 
Brotherhood,  that  he  abandoned  his  idea  of  visiting  the  Huddle 
Stone  and  the  Wapping  Thorp  (which  would  have  taken  him 
out  of  his  course),  and,  without  even  waiting  to  break  his  fast, 
leaped  on  to  Pepper's  back  and  turned  her  head  southwest 
towards  the  hills.  And  in  his  eagerness  he  failed  to  remark 
how  Pepper  stumbled  at  every  second  step.  Before  he  had 
gone  a  mile  he  came  to  the  Guess  Gate. 

Of  the  Guess  Gate,  as  you  may  know,  all  men  ask  a  ques- 
tion in  passing  through,  and  in  the  back-swing  of  the  Gate  it 
creaks  an  answer.  So  nothing  more  natural  than  that  the 
King,  having  flung  the  Gate  open,  should  cry  aloud  once 
more: 

"Gate,  Gate!  what  should  a  King  do  in  a  Barn?" 

"Now  at  last,"  thought  he,  "I  shall  be  told  whether  to  dance 
or  to  pray  in  it."  And  he  stood  listening  eagerly  as  the  Gate 
hung  an  instant  on  its  outward  journey  and  then  began  to 
creak   home. 

"He  —  should  —  rule  —  in  —  it  —  he  —  should  —  rule  — 
in — it — he — should — "  squeaked  the  Guess  Gate,  and  then  the 
latch  clicked  and  it  was  silent. 

This  disconcerted  William. 

"Now  I  am  worse  off  than  ever,"  he  sighed.  "Pray,  Pep- 
per, can  this  advice  be  bettered  ?" 

As  usual  when  he  questioned  her,  the  nag  pricked  up  her 
ears  and  whinnied  so  violently  that  he  nearly  fell  off  her  back. 
Nevertheless,  he  kept  Pepper's  head  in  a  beeline  for  Chanctoh- 


24    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

bury,  never  noticing  how  very  ill  she  vi^as  going,  and  presently 
crossed  the  great  High  Road  beyond  which  lay  the  Bush  Hovel. 
The  Wise  Woman  was  at  home;  from  afar  the  King  saw 
her  sitting  outside  the  Hovel  mending  her  broom  with  a  withe 
from  the  Bush. 

"Here  if  anywhere,"  rejoiced  William,  "I  shall  learn  the 
truth." 

He  dismounted  and  approached  the  old  woman,  cap  in  hand. 

"Wise  Woman,"  he  said  respectfully,  "j^ou  know  most  things, 
but  do  you  know  this — whether  a  King  should  dance  or  pray 
or  rule  in  his  Barn?" 

"He  should  do  all  three,  young  man,"  said  the  Wise  Woman. 

"But — !"  exclaimed  William, 

"I'm  busy,"  snapped  the  Wise  Woman.  "You  men  will 
always  be  chattering,  as  though  pots  need  never  be  stewed  nor 
cobwebs  swept."  So  saying,  she  went  into  the  Hovel  and 
slammed  the  door. 

"Pepper,"  said  the  poor  King,  "I  am  at  my  wits'  ends.  Go 
where  yours  lead  you." 

At  this  Pepper  whinnied  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  delight,  and 
the  King  had  to  clasp  both  arms  round  her  neck  to  avoid 
tumbling  off. 

Now  the  little  nag  preferred  roads  to  beelines  over  copses 
and  ditches,  and  she  turned  back  and  ambled  along  the  high- 
way so  very  lamely  that  it  became  impossible  even  for  her 
preoccupied  rider  not  to  perceive  that  she  had  cast  all  her  four 
shoes. 

"Poor  beast!"  he  cried  dismayed,  "how  has  this  happened, 
and  where?  Oh,  Pepper,  how  could  you  be  so  careless?  I 
have  not  a  penny  in  my  purse  to  buy  you  new  shoes,  my  poor 
Pepper.     Do  you  not  remember  where  you  lost  them?" 

The  little  nag  licked  her  master's  hand  (for  he  had  dis- 
mounted to  examine  her  trouble),  and  looked  at  him  with 
great  eyes  full  of  affection,  and  then  she  flung  up  her  head 
and  whinnied  louder  than  ever.  The  sound  of  it  was  like 
nothing  so  much  as  laughter.  Then  she  went  on,  hobbling  as 
best  she  could,  and  the  King  walked  by  her  side  with  his  hand 
on  her  neck.  In  this  way  they  came  to  a  small  village,  and 
here  the  nag  turned  up  a  by-road  and  halted  outside  the 
blacksmith's  forge.  The  smith's  Lad  stood  within,  clinking 
at  the  anvil,  the  smuttiest  Lad  smith  ever  had. 

"Lad!"  cried  the  King. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    25 

The  Lad  looked  up  from  his  work  and  came  at  once  to 
the  door,  wiping  his  hands  upon  his  leather  apron. 

"Where  am  I?"  asked  the  King. 

"In  the  village  of  Washington,"  said  the  Lad. 

"What!     Under  the  Ring?"  cried  the  King. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  Lad. 

"A  blessing  on  you!"  said  the  King  joyfully,  and  clapped  his 
hand  on  the  Lad's  shoulder.  "Pepper,  you  have  solved  the 
problem  and  led  me  to  my  destiny." 

"Is  Pepper  your  nag's  name?"  asked  the  blacksmith's  Lad. 

"It  is,"  said  the  King;  "her  only  one." 

"Then  she  has  one  more  name  than  she  has  shoes,"  said  the 
Lad.     "How  came  she  to  lose  them?" 

"I   didn't  notice,"  confessed   the  King. 

"You  must  have  been  thinking  very  deeply,"  remarked  the 
Lad.     "Are  you  in  love?" 

"I  am  not  quite  twenty-one,"  said  the  King. 

"I  see.     Do  you  want  your  nag  shod?" 

"I  do.     But  I  have  spent  my  last  penny." 

"Earn  another  then,"  said  the  Lad. 

"I  did  not  even  earn  the  last  one,"  said  the  King  shame- 
facedly.    "I   have  never  worked   in   my  life." 

"Why,  where  have  you  lived?"  exclaimed  the  Lad. 

"In  a  Barn." 

"But  one  works  in  a  Barn — " 

"Stop!"  cried  the  King,  putting  his  fingers  in  his  ears.  "One 
prays  in  a  Barn." 

"Very  likely,"  said  the  Lad,  looking  at  him  curiously.  "Are 
you  going  to  pray  in  one?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  King.    "When  is  the  New  Moon?" 

"Next  Saturday." 

"Hurrah!"  cried  the  King.  "That  settles  it.  But  what's 
to-day?" 

"Monday,  sir." 

"Alas!"  sighed  William,  wondering  how  he  should  make 
shift  to  live  for  five  days. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  said  the  Lad. 

"I  would  tell  you  my  meaning,"  said  the  King,  "but  am 
pledged  not  to." 

Then  the  Lad  said,  "Let  it  pass.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make. 
My  father  is  dead,  and  for  two  years  I  have  worked  the  forge 
single-handed.     Now  I  am  willing  to  teach  you  to  shoe  your 


26     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

nag  with  four  good  shoes  and  strong,  if  you  will  meanwhile 
blow  the  bellows  for  whatever  other  jobs  come  to  the  forge; 
and  if  the  shoes  are  not  done  by  dinner-time  you  shall  have 
a  meal  thrown  in." 

The  King  looked  at  the  Lad  kindly. 

"I  shall  blow  your  bellows  very  badly,"  he  said,  "and  shoe 
my  nag  still  worse." 

Said  the  Lad,  "You'll  learn  in  time." 

"Not  before  dinner-time,  I  hope,"  said  the  King,  "for  I 
am  very  hungry." 

"You  look  hungry,"  said  the  Lad.    "It's  a  bargain  then." 

The  King  held  out  his  hand,  but  the  Lad  suddenly  whipped 
his  behind  his  back.    "It's  so  dirty,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Give  it  me  all  the  same,"  said  the  King;  and  they  clasped 
hands. 

The  rest  of  that  morning  the  King  spent  in  blowing  the 
bellows,  and  by  dinner-time  not  so  much  as  the  first  of  Pep- 
per's hoofs  was  shod.  For  a  great  deal  of  business  came  into 
the  forge,  and  there  was  no  time  for  a  lesson.  So  the  King 
and  the  Lad  took  their  meal  together,  and  the  King  was  by 
this  time  nearly  as  black  as  his  master.  He  would  have  washed 
himself,  but  the  Lad  said  it  was  no  matter,  he  himself  having 
no  time  to  wash  from  week's  end  to  week's  end.  In  the  after- 
noon they  changed  places,  and  the  King  stood  at  the  anvil  and 
the  Lad  at  the  bellows.  He  was  a  good  teacher,  but  the  King 
made  a  poor  job  of  it.  By  nightfall  he  had  produced  shoes 
resembling  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  excepting  U,  and 
when  at  last  he  submitted  to  the  Lad  a  shoe  like  nothing  so 
much  as  a  drunken  S,  his  master  shrugged  and  said: 

"Zeal  is  praiseworthy  within  its  limits,  but  the  best  of  smiths 
does  not  attempt  to  make  two  shoes  at  once.    Let  us  sup." 

They  supped;  and  afterwards  the  Lad  showed  the  King  a 
small  bedroom  as  neat  as  a  new  pin. 

"I  shall  sully  the  sheets,"  said  William,  "and  you  will  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  fetch  the  kettle,  which  is  on  the  boil." 

"As  you  please,"  said  the  Lad,  and  took  himself  off. 

In  the  morning  the  King  came  clean  to  breakfast,  but  the 
Lad  was  as  black  as  he  had  been. 

Tuesday  passed  as  Monday  had  passed;  now  William  took 
the  bellows,  marveling  at  his  youthful  master's  deftness,  and 
now  the  Lad  blew,  groaning  at  his  pupil's  clumsiness.  By 
nightfall,  however,  he  had  achieved  a  shoe  faintly  recognizable 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    27 

as  such.  For  a  second  time  the  King  washed  himself  and 
slept  again  in  the  little  trim  chamber,  but  the  Lad  in  the  morn- 
ing resembled  midnight.  In  this  way  the  week  went  by,  the 
King's  heart  beating  a  little  faster  each  morning  as  Saturday 
approached,  and  he  wondered  by  what  ruse  he  could  explain 
his  absence  without  creating  suspicion  or  breaking  his  pledge. 

On  Saturday  morning  the  Lad  said  to  the  King:  "This  is  a 
half-day.  You  must  make  your  shoe  this  morning  or  not  at  all. 
It  is  my  custom  at  one  o'clock  to  close  the  forge  and  go  to 
visit  my  Great-Aunt.  I  will  be  at  work  again  on  Monday, 
till  when  you  must  shift  for  yourself." 

The  King  could  hardly  believe  his  luck  in  having  matters 
so  well  settled,  and  he  spent  the  morning  so  diligently  that  by 
noon  he  had  produced  a  shoe  which,  if  not  that  of  a  master- 
craftsman,  was  at  least  adaptable  to  the  purpose  for  which  it 
had  been  fashioned. 

The  Lad  examined  it  and  said  reluctantly,  "It  will  do," 
and  proceeded  to  show  the  King  how  to  fasten  it  to  Pepper's 
hoof. 

"Why,"  said  the  King,  having  the  nag's  off  forefoot  in  his 
hand,  "here's  a  stone  in  it.     Small  wonder  she  limped." 

"It  isn't  a  stone,"  said  the  Lad,  extracting  it,  "it  is  a  ruby." 

And  he  exhibited  to  the  King  a  ruby  of  such  a  glowing  red 
that  it  was  as  though  the  souls  of  all  the  grapes  of  Burgundy 
had  been  pressed  to  create  it. 

"You  are  a  rich  man  now,"  said  the  Lad  quietly,  "and  can 
live  as  you  will." 

But  William  closed  the  Lad's  fingers  over  the  stone.  "Keep 
it,"  he  said,  "for  you  have  filled  me  for  a  week,  and  I  have 
paid  you  with  nothing  but  my  breath." 

"As  you  please,"  said  the  Lad  carelessly,  and,  tossing  the 
stone  upon  a  shelf,  locked  up  the  forge.  "Now  I  am  going  to 
my  Great-Aunt.     There's  a  cake  in  the  larder." 

So  saying,  he  strolled  away,  and  the  King  was  left  to  his 
own  devices.  These  consisted  in  bathing  himself  from  head 
to  foot  till  his  body  was  as  pure  without  as  he  desired  his  heart 
to  be  within ;  and  in  donning  his  fresh  suit  of  linen.  He 
would  not  break  his  fast,  but  waited,  trembling  and  eager,  till 
an  hour  before  sundown,  and  then  at  last  he  set  forth  to  mount 
the  great  hill  with  the  sacred  crown  of  trees  upon  its  crest. 

When  at  last  he  stood  upon  the  boundary  of  the  Ring,  his 
heart  sprang  for  joy  in  his  breast,  and  his  breath  nearly  failed 


28    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

him  with  amazement  at  the  beauty  of  the  world  which  lay 
outspread  for  leagues  below  him. 

"Oh,  lovely  earth!"  he  cried  aloud,  "never  till  now  have  I 
known  what  beauty  I  lived  in.  How  is  it  that  we  cannot  see 
the  wonder  of  our  surroundings  until  we  gaze  upon  them 
from  afar?  But  if  you  look  so  fair  from  the  hilltops,  what 
must  you  appear  from  the  very  sky?"  And  lost  in  delight  he 
turned  his  eyes  upward,  and  was  recalled  to  his  senses  by  the 
sig^lit  of  the  sinking  sun.  "Lovely  one,  how  nearly  you  have 
betrayed  me!"  he  said,  and  smiling  waved  his  hand  to  the  dear 
earth,  sealed  up  his  lips,  and  entered  the  Ring. 

And  here  between  the  two  midmost  beeches  he  knelt  down 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  prayed  the  spirits  of  that 
place  to  make  him  worthy. 

The  hours  passed,  quarter  by  quarter,  and  the  King  stayed 
motionless  like  one  in  a  dream.  Presently,  however,  the  dream 
was  faintly  shaken  by  a  little  lirrup  of  sound,  as  light  as  rain 
dropping  from  leaves  above  a  pool.  Again  and  again  the  sweet 
round  notes  fell  on  the  meditations  of  the  King,  and  he  remem- 
bered with  entrancement  that  this  was  the  tender  signal  by 
which  he  was  summoned  to  the  Pond.  So,  rising  silently,  he 
wandered  through  the  trees,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
soft  dim  turf,  lest  some  new  beauty  should  tempt  him  to  speech, 
he  went  across  the  open  hill  to  the  Pond,  Here  he  knelt  down 
again,  listening  to  the  childlike  bird,  until  at  last  the  young 
piping  ceased  with  a  joyous  chuckle.  And  at  that  instant, 
reflected  in  the  Pond,  he  saw  the  silver  star  that  watches  the 
invisible  young  moon,  and  dipped  his  head. 

Oh,  my  dear  maids!  when  he  lifted  it  again,  all  wet  and 
bewildered,  he  saw  upon  the  opposite  border  of  the  Pond,  a 
figure,  the  white  figure  of — a  woman?  a  girl?  a  child?  He 
could  not  tell,  for  she  lay  three  parts  in  the  shadowy  water 
with  her  back  towards  him,  and  his  gaze  and  senses  swam; 
but  in  that  faint  starlight  one  bare  and  lovely  arm,  as  white  as 
the  crescent  moon,  was  clear  to  him,  upcurved  to  her  shadowy 
hair.  So  she  reclined,  and  so  he  knelt,  both  motionless,  and 
his  heart  trembled  (even  as  it  had  trembled  at  the  bird's  song) 
with  a  wish  to  go  near  to  her,  or  at  least  to  whisper  to  her  across 
the  water.  Indeed,  he  was  on  the  point  of  doing  so,  when  a 
sudden  contraction  seized  him,  his  eyes  closed  in  a  delicious 
agony,  and  he  sneezed  once  vigorously ;  and  in  that  moment  of 
shattering  blackness  he  recalled  his  vow,  and  rising  turned  his 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    29 

back  upon  the  vision  and  groped  his  way  again  to  the  shelter 
of  the  trees. 

Here  he  remained  till  dawn  in  meditation,  but  as  to  the 
nature  of  his  meditations  I  am,  dear  maidens,  ignorant.  Nor 
do  I  know  in  what  restless  wise  he  passed  his  Sunday. 

It  is  enough  to  know  that  on  Monday  when  he  went  into 
the  forge  he  found  the  Lad  already  at  work,  and  if  he  had 
been  pitch-black  at  their  parting  he  was  no  less  so  at  their 
meeting.  He  appeared  to  be  out  of  humor,  and  for  some  time 
regarded  his  apprentice  with  dissatisfaction,  but  only  remarked 
at  last: 

"You  look  fatigued." 

"My  sleep  was  broken  with  dreams,"  said  the  King.  "I 
am  sorry  if  I  am  late.  Let  me  to  my  shoeing.  Since  Satur- 
day ended  in  success,  I  suppose  I  shall  now  finish  the  business 
without  more  ado." 

He  was,  however,  too  hopeful  as  it  appeared,  for  though 
he  managed  to  fashion  a  shoe  which  was  in  his  eyes  the  equal 
of  the  other,  the  Lad  was  captious  and  would  not  commend  it. 

"I  should  be  an  ill  craftmaster,"  said  he,  "if  I  let  you  rest 
content  on  what  you  have  already  done.  I  made  such  a  shoe 
as  this  on  my  thirteenth  birthday,  and  my  father's  only  praise 
was,  'You  must  do  better  yet.'  " 

So  particular  was  the  young  smith  that  William  spent  the 
whole  of  another  week  in  endeavoring  to  please  him.  This 
might  have  chafed  the  King,  but  that  it  agreed  entirely  with 
his  desires  to  remain  in  that  place,  sleeping  and  eating  at  no 
cost  to  himself,  and  working  so  strenuously  that  his  hands 
grew  almost  as  hard  as  the  metal  he  worked  in ;  for  the  Lad 
now  began  to  entrust  him  with  small  jobs  of  various  sorts, 
although  in  the  matter  of  the  second  shoe  he  refused  to  be 
satisfied. 

When  Saturday  came,  however,  the  King  contrived  a  shoe  so 
much  superior  to  any  he  had  yet  made  that  the  Lad,  examining 
it,  was  compelled  to  say,  "It  is  better  than  the  other."  Then 
Pepper,  who  always  stood  in  a  noose  beside  the  door  awaiting 
her  moment,  lifted  up  her  near  forefoot  of  her  own  accord, 
and  the  King  took  it  in  his  hand. 

"How  odd!"  be  exclaimed  a  moment  later.  "The  nag  has 
a  stone  in  this  foot  also.  It  is  not  strange  that  she  went  so 
ill." 

"It  is  not  a  stone,"  said  the  Lad.     "It  is  a  pearl." 


so    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

And  he  held  out  to  the  King  a  pearl  of  such  a  shining  purity 
that  it  was  as  though  it  had  been  rounded  within  the  spirit  of 
a  saint. 

"This  makes  you  a  rich  man,"  said  the  Lad  moodily,  "and 
you  can  journey  whither  you  please." 

But  the  King  shook  his  head.  "Keep  it,"  he  said,  "for  you 
have  lodged  me  for  a  week,  and  I  have  given  you  only  the 
clumsy  service  of  my  hands." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Lad  simply,  and  put  the  pearl  in  his 
pocket.  "My  Great-Aunt  is  expecting  me.  There's  a  cake  in 
the  larder." 

So  saying  he  walked  ofiF,  and  the  King  was  left  alone.  As 
before,  he  bathed  himself  and  changed  his  linen,  and  left  the 
contents  of  the  larder  untouched ;  and  an  hour  before  sunset 
he  climbed  the  hill  for  the  second  time,  and  presently  stood 
panting  on  the  edge  of  the  Ring.  And  again  a  pang  of  wonder 
that  was  akin  to  pain  shot  through  his  heart  at  the  loveliness 
of  the  world  below  hira. 

"Beautiful  earth!"  he  cried  once  more,  "how  fair  and  dear 
you  are  become  to  me  in  your  remoteness.  But  oh,  if  you 
appear  so  beautiful  from  this  summit,  what  must  you  appear 
from  the  summit  of  the  clouds?"  And  he  glanced  from  the 
earth  to  the  sky,  and  saw  the  sun  running  down  his  airy  hill. 
"Dear  Temptress!"  he  said,  "how  cunningly  you  would  snare 
me  from  my  purpose."  And  he  kissed  his  hand  to  her  thrice, 
sealed  up  his  lips,  and  entered  the  Ring. 

Between  the  two  tall  beeches  he  knelt  down,  and  drowned 
the  following  hours  in  thought  and  prayer;  till  that  deep  lake 
of  meditation  was  divided  by  the  sound  of  singing,  as  though 
a  shoal  of  silver  fishes  swam  and  leaped  upon  its  surface,  put- 
ting all  quietness  to  flight,  and  troubling  its  waters  with  a  mil- 
lion lovelinesses.  For  now  it  was  as  though  the  bird's  enchant- 
ing song  came  partly  from  within  and  partly  from  without, 
and  if  the  fall  of  its  music  shattered  his  dream  like  falling  fish, 
certain  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  fish  had  first  leaped  from  his 
own  heart,  out  of  whose  unsuspected  caves  darted  a  shoal  of 
nameless  longings.  He  too  leaped  up  and  darted  through  the 
trees,  and  with  head  bent  down,  for  fear  of  he  knew  not  what, 
made  his  way  to  the  Pond.  Here  he  knelt  again,  drinking  in 
the  tremulous  song  of  the  bird,  as  tremulous  as  youth  and  maid- 
enhood, until  at  last  it  ceased  with  a  sweet  uncompleted  cry 
of  longing.     And  at  that  instant,  in  the  mirror  of  the  Pond, 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    31 

he  saw  the  uncompleted  disc  of  the  half-moon,  and  dipped  his 
head. 

Ah  wonder!  when  he  lifted  it  again,  dazzled  and  dripping, 
he  saw  across  the  Pond  a  figure  rising  from  the  water,  the 
figure,  as  he  could  now  perceive  in  the  fuller  light,  of  a  girl, 
clear  to  the  waist.  Her  face  was  half  turned  from  him,  and 
her  hair  flowed  half  to  him  and  half  away,  but  within  that 
cloudy  setting  gleamed  the  lines  of  her  lovely  neck  and  one 
white  shoulder  and  one  moonlit  breast,  whose  undercurve  ap- 
peared to  float  upon  the  Pond  like  the  petal  of  a  waterlily. 
So  he  knelt  on  his  side  and  she  on  hers,  both  motionless,  and 
his  heart  leaped  (even  as  it  had  leaped  at  the  bird's  song)  with 
a  longing  to  kneel  beside  and  even  touch  that  loveliness;  or, 
if  he  could  not,  at  least  to  call  to  her  across  the  Pond  so  that 
she  would  turn  and  reveal  to  him  what  still  was  hidden.  He 
was  in  fact  about  to  do  so,  when  suddenly  his  senses  were  over- 
whelmed with  a  sweet  anguish,  darkness  fell  on  him,  and  from 
i-S  very  core  he  sneezed  twice,  violently.  This  interruption 
of  the  previous  spell  was  sufficient  to  bring  him  to  a  realiza- 
tion of  his  peril,  and  rising  hastily  he  ran  back  to  the  Ring, 
where  he  remained  till  morning.  But  to  what  pious  thoughts 
he  then  committed  himself  I  cannot  tell  you;  neither  in  what 
feverish  fashion  he  got  through  Sunday. 

On  Monday  morning  when  he  arrived  at  the  forge  he  found 
the  Lad  at  work  before  him,  and  ebony  was  not  blacker  than 
his  face.  He  glanced  at  the  King  with  some  show  of  temper, 
but  only  said : 

"You  look  worn  out." 

"I  have  had  bad  dreams,"  said  the  King.  "Excuse  me  for 
being  behind  my  time.  I  will  try  to  make  up  for  it  by  wasting 
no  more,  and  fashioning  instantly  two  shoes  as  good  as  that  I 
made  on  Saturday." 

But  though  he  handled  his  tools  with  more  dexterity  than 
he  had  yet  exhibited,  the  Lad  petulantly  pushed  aside  the  first 
shoe  he  made,  which  to  the  King  appeared  to  be,  if  anything, 
superior  to  the  one  he  had  made  on  Saturday.  The  Lad,  how- 
ever, qin'ckly  explained  himself,  saying: 

"A  master-smith  who  intends  to  make  his  apprentice  his  equal 
will  not  let  him  rest  at  the  halfway  house.  I  made  a  shoe  like 
this  when  I  was  fourteen,  and  all  my  father  said  was,  *I  have 
hopes  of  you.'  " 

So  for  yet  another  week  the  King's  nose  was  kept  to  the 


32    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

grindstone,  and  it  would  have  irritated  most  men  to  find  their 
good  work  repeatedly  condemned ;  but  William  was,  as  you  may 
have  observed,  singularly  sweet-tempered,  besides  which  he  de- 
sired nothing  so  much  as  to  remain  where  he  was.  And  for 
another  five  days  he  slept  and  ate  and  worked,  until  the  muscles 
of  his  arms  began  to  swell,  and  he  swung  the  hammer  with 
as  much  ease  as  his  master,  who  now  left  a  great  part  of  the 
work  entirely  in  his  hands.  Although  in  the  matter  of  the 
third  shoe  he  refused  to  be  satisfied. 

Nevertheless  on  Saturday  morning  the  King,  making  a  last 
eflFort  before  the  forge  was  shut,  submitted  a  shoe  so  far  beyond 
anything  he  had  yet  achieved,  that  the  Lad  could  not  but  say, 
"This  is  a  good  shoe."  And  Pepper,  seeing  them  coming,  lifted 
her  off  hind-foot  to  be  shod. 

"Now  as  I  live!"  cried  the  King.  "Another  stone!  And 
how  she  contrived  to  hobble  so  far  is  a  miracle," 

"It  isn't  a  stone,"  said  the  Lad,  "it  is  a  diamond." 

And  he  presented  to  the  King  a  diamond  of  such  triumphant 
brilliance  that  it  might  have  been  conceived  of  the  ambitions 
of  the  mightiest  monarch  of  the  earth. 

"You  now  own  surpassing  wealth,"  said  the  Lad  dejectedly, 
"and  you  have  no  more  need  to  work." 

But  William  would  not  even  touch  the  stone.  "Keep  it," 
he  said,  "for  }'ou  have  befriended  me  for  a  week,  and  I  have 
given  you  only  the  strength  of  my  arms." 

"Let  it  be  so,"  said  the  Lad  gently,  and  put  the  diamond 
in  his  belt.  "I  must  not  keep  my  Great-Aunt  waiting.  There's 
a  cake  in  the  larder." 

So  saying  he  went  his  way,  and  the  King  went  his;  which, 
as  you  may  surmise,  was  to  the  bath  and  his  clean  clothes.  He 
did  not  go  into  the  larder,  and  an  hour  before  sunset  made  the 
ascent  of  the  hill,  and  for  the  third  time  stood  like  a  conqueror 
upon  the  crest.  And  as  he  gazed  over  the  lands  below  his  heart 
throbbed  with  a  passion  for  the  earth  that  was  half  agony 
and  half  love,  unless  indeed  it  was  the  whole  agony  of  love. 

"Most  beautiful  earth !"  he  cried  aloud,  "only  as  you  recede 
from  me  do  I  realize  how  necessary  it  is  for  me  to  possess  you. 
How  is  it  that  when  I  possess  you  I  know  you  not  as  I  know 
you  now?  But  oh!  if  you  are  so  wonderful  from  these  great 
hills,  what  must  you  be  from  the  greater  hills  of  the  air?" 
And  he  looked  up,  and  saw  the  sun  descending  in  the  west. 
"Sweet  earth,"  he  sighed,  "you  would  hold  me  when  I  should 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    33 

be  gone,  and  never  remind  me  that  the  moment  to  depart  is 
due."  And  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her,  sealed  up  his  lips, 
and  went  into  the  Ring. 

Once  more  he  knelt  between  the  giant  beeches,  and  sank  all 
thoughts  in  pious  contemplation ;  till  suddenly  those  still  waters 
were  convulsed  as  though  with  stormy  currents,  and  a  wild 
song  beat  through  his  breast,  so  that  he  could  not  believe  it 
was  the  bird  singing  from  a  short  distance:  it  was  as  though 
the  storm  of  music  broke  from  his  singing  heart — yes,  from  his 
own  heart  singing  for  some  unexpressed  fulfillment.  He  was 
barely  conscious  of  going  through  the  trees,  with  eyes  shut  tight 
against  the  outer  world,  but  soon  he  was  kneeling  at  the  brink 
of  the  Pond,  while  the  surge  of  joy  and  pain  in  the  song  broke 
on  his  spirit  like  waves  upon  a  shore,  or  love  upon  a  man  and 
a  woman — washed  back,  towered  up,  and  broke  on  him  again. 
At  last  on  one  full  glorious  phrase  it  ceased.  And  at  that  in- 
stant, deep  in  the  Pond,  he  saw  the  full  orb  of  the  moon,  and 
dipped  his  head. 

Oh,  when  he  lifted  it,  startled  and  illuminated,  he  saw  on 
the  further  side  of  the  Pond  a  woman  standing.  The  moonlight 
bathed  her  form  from  head  to  foot,  her  hair  was  thrown  be- 
hind her,  and  she  stood  facing  him,  so  that  in  the  cold  clear 
light  he  could  see  her  fully  revealed :  her  strong  tender  face, 
her  strong  soft  body,  her  strong  slim  legs,  her  strong  and  lovely 
arms.  As  white  as  mayblossom  she  was,  and  beauty  went  forth 
from  her  like  fragrance  from  the  shaken  bough.  So  he  knelt 
on  his  side  and  she  stood  on  hers,  both  motionless,  but  gazing 
into  each  other's  eyes,  and  his  heart  broke  (even  as  it  had 
broken  at  the  bird's  song)  with  a  passion  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  alone  would  mend  its 
breaking.  Or  if  he  might  not  do  this,  at  least  to  send  his  need 
of  her  in  a  great  cry  across  the  Pond.  And  as  his  passion  grew 
she  slowly  lifted  her  arms  and  opened  them  to  him  as  though 
to  bid  him  enter;  and  her  lips  parted,  and  she  cried  out,  as 
though  she  were  uttering  the  cry  of  his  own  soul: 

"Beloved!" 

All  the  joy  and  the  pain,  fulfilled,  of  the  bird's  song  were 
gathered  in  that  word. 

Glorified  he  leaped  up,  his  whole  being  answering  the  cry 
of  hers,  but  before  his  lips  could  translate  it  he  was  gripped  by 
a  migrhty  agony,  and  sneeze  after  sneeze  shook  all  his  senses, 
so  that  he  was  utterly  helpless.     When   he  was  able  to  look 


34    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

up  again  he  saw  the  woman  moving  towards  him  round  the 
Pond,  and  suddenly  he  clapped  his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  fled 
towards  the  Ring,  as  though  pursued  by  demons.  Here  he 
passed  the  remainder  of  the  night,  but  in  what  sort  of  prayers 
I  leave  you  to  imagine;  as  also  amid  what  ravings  he  passed  his 
Sunday. 

On  Monday  the  Lad  was  again  before  him  at  the  forge, 
and  a  crow's  wing  had  looked  milky  beside  his  face.  He  did 
not  raise  his  eyes  as  the  King  came  in,  but  said: 

"You  look  very  ill."     He  said  it  furiously. 

"I  have  had  nightmares,"  said  the  King.  "Pardon  me  if  you 
can.    I  will  get  to  work  and  make  my  final  shoe." 

But  though  he  now  had  little  more  to  learn  in  his  craft,  the 
Lad,  when  the  shoe  was  made,  picked  it  up  in  his  pincers  and 
flung  it  to  the  other  end  of  the  forge;  yet  the  King  now  knew 
enough  to  know  that  few  smiths  could  have  made  its  equal.  So 
he  looked  surprised;  at  which  the  Lad,  controlling  himself,  said: 

"When  I  pass  your  fourth  shoe  you  will  need  no  more  mas- 
ters— I  forged  a  shoe  like  that  one  yonder  when  I  was  fifteen, 
and  my  father  said  of  it,  'You  will  make  a  smith  one  day.'  " 

And  on  neither  Tuesday  nor  Wednesday  nor  Thursday  nor 
Friday  could  the  King  succeed  in  pleasing  the  Lad ;  the  better 
his  shoes  the  angrier  grew  his  young  master  that  they  were  not 
good  enough.  Yet  between  these  gusts  of  temper  he  was  gentle 
and  remorseful,  and  once  the  King  saw  tears  in  his  eyes,  and 
another  time  the  Lad  came  humbly  to  ask  for  pardon.  Then 
William  laughed  and  put  out  his  hand,  but,  as  once  before,  the 
Lad  slipped  his  behind  his  back  and  said: 

"It  is  so  dirty,  friend."  ' 

And  this  time  he  would  not  let  William  take  it.  So  the  King 
was  forced  instead  to  lay  his  arm  about  the  Lad's  shoulder,  and 
press  it  tenderly ;  but  the  Lad  made  no  response,  and  only  stood 
hanging  his  head  until  the  King  removed  his  arm.  All  the  same, 
when  next  the  King  made  a  shoe  he  was  full  of  rage,  and 
stamped  on  it,  and  ran  out  of  the  forge.  Which  surprised 
the  King  all  the  more  because  it  was  so  excellent  a  shoe.  Yet 
he  was  secretly  glad  of  its  rejection,  for  he  felt  it  would  break 
his  heart  to  go  away  from  that  place ;  and  he  could  think  of 
no  good  cause  for  remaining,  once  Pepper  was  shod.  So  there 
he  stayed,  eating,  sleeping,  and  working,  while  the  thews  of 
his  back  became  as  strong  under  the  smooth  skin  as  the  thews 
of  a  beech-tree  under  the  smooth  bark ;  and  his  craft  was  such 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    35 

that  the  Lad  at  last  left  the  whole  of  the  work  of  the  forge  in 
his  charge.  For  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  do  surpassingly 
well.  And  this  the  Lad  admitted,  save  only  in  the  case  of  the 
fourth  shoe. 

But  on  Saturday,  just  before  closing-time,  the  King  set  to 
and  made  a  shoe  so  fine  that  when  the  Lad  saw  it  he  said 
quietly,  "I  could  not  make  a  better."  Had  he  not  said  so  he 
must  have  lied,  or  proved  that  he  did  not  know  a  masterpiece 
when  he  saw  it.  And  he  was  too  good  a  craftsman  for  that, 
besides  being  honest. 

Pepper  instantly  lifted  up  her  near  hind-foot. 

"Upon  my  w-ord!"  exclaimed  the  King,  "the  world  is  full  of 
stones,  and  Pepper  has  found  them  all.  The  wonder  is  that 
she  did  not  fall  down  on  the  road." 

"This  is  not  a  stone,"  said  the  Lad,  "it  is  an  opal." 

And  he  displayed  an  opal  of  such  marvelous  changeability, 
such  milk  and  fire  shot  with  such  shifting  rainbows,  that  it 
was  as  though  it  had  had  birth  of  all  the  moods  of  all  the 
w^omen  of  all  time. 

"This  enriches  you  for  life,"  said  the  Lad  gloomily,  "and 
now  you  are  free  of  masters  for  ever." 

But  William  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  "Keep  it," 
he  said,  "for  this  w^eek  you  have  given  me  love,  and  I  have 
given  you  nothing  but  the  sinews  of  my  body." 

The  Lad  looked  at  him  and  said,  "I  have  given  you  hard 
words,  and  fits  of  temper,  and  much  injustice." 

"Have  you?"  said  William.  "I  remember  only  your  tender- 
ness and  your  tears.     So  keep  the  opal  in  love's  name." 

The  Lad  tried  to  answer,  but  could  not;  and  he  slipped  the 
opal  under  his  shirt.  Then  he  faltered,  "My  Great-Aunt — " 
and  still  he  could  not  speak.  But  he  made  a  third  effort,  and 
said,  "There  is  a  cake  in  the  larder,"  and  turned  on  his  heel 
and  went  away  quickly.  And  the  King  looked  after  him  till 
he  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  very  slowly  went  to  his  bath 
and  his  fresh  linen.     But  he  left  the  cake  where  it  was. 

And  he  sat  by  the  door  of  the  forge  with  his  face  in  his 
hands  until  the  length  of  his  shadow  warned  him  that  he  must 
go.  And  he  rose  and  went  for  the  last  time  up  the  hill,  but 
with  a  sinking  heart;  and  when  he  stood  on  the  top  and  gazed 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  earth  he  had  left  below,  in  his  breast 
was  the  aclie  of  loss  and  longing  for  one  he  had  loved,  and  with 
his  eyes  he  tried  to  draw  that  beauty  into  himself,  but  the 


36    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

void  in  him  remained  unfulfilled.     Yet  never  had  her  beauty 
been  so  great. 

"Beloved  and  lovely  earth!"  he  whispered,  "why  do  you  ap- 
pear most  fair  and  most  desirable  now  that  I  am  about  to  lose 
you?  Why  when  I  had  you  did  you  not  hold  me  by  force, 
and  tell  me  what  you  were?  Only  now  I  discover  you  from 
mid-heaven — but  oh!  in  what  way  should  I  discover  you  from 
heaven  itself?"  And  he  looked  upward,  and  lo!  a  blurred 
sun  shone  upon  him,  swimming  to  its  rest.  But  the  blurring 
was  caused  by  his  own  tears  in  his  eyes.  "Farewell,  dear 
earth!"  said  the  King.  "Since  you  cannot  mount  to  me,  and  I 
may  not  descend  to  you."  And  he  knelt  upon  the  turf  and  laid 
his  cheek  and  forehead  to  it,  and  then  he  rose,  sealed  up  his  lips, 
and  passed  into  the  Ring. 

Between  the  two  tall  beeches  he  sank  down,  and  all  sense 
and  thought  and  consciousness  sank  with  him,  as  though  his 
being  had  become  a  dead  forgotten  lake,  hidden  in  a  lifeless 
wood ;  where  birds  sang  not,  nor  rain  fell,  nor  fishes  played, 
nor  currents  moved  below  the  stagnant  waters.  But  presently 
a  wind  seemed  to  wail  among  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of  it 
traveled  over  the  King's  senses,  stirred  them,  and  passed.  But 
only  to  return  again,  moan  over  him,  and  trail  away;  and  so 
it  kept  coming  and  going  till  first  he  heard,  then  listened  to, 
and  at  last  realized  the  haunting  signal  of  the  bird.  And  he 
went  forth  into  the  open  night,  his  eyes  wide  apart  but  seeing 
nothing  until  he  stumbled  at  the  Pond  and  crouched  beside  it. 
The  bird  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  presently  the  sound, 
like  a  ghost  at  dawn,  ceased  to  exist ;  and  at  that  instant,  under 
the  Pond,  he  beheld  the  lessening  circle  of  the  moon,  and 
dipped  his  head. 

Alas!  when  he  lifted  it,  shivering  and  stunned,  he  saw  the 
form  he  longed  to  see  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pond ;  but  not, 
as  he  had  longed  to  see  it,  gazing  at  him  with  the  love  and 
glory  of  seven  nights  ago.  Now  she  stood  on  the  turf,  half 
turned  from  him,  and  the  wave  of  her  hair  blew  to  and  fro 
like  a  cloud,  now  revealing  her  white  side,  now  concealing  it. 
And  he  looked,  but  she  would  not  look.  So  he  knelt  on  his 
side  and  she  remained  on  hers,  both  motionless.  And  suddenly 
the  impulse  to  sneeze  arose  within  him,  and  at  that  instant 
she  began  to  move — not  towards  him,  as  before,  but  away  from 
him,  downhill. 

At  that  he  could  bear  no  more,  and  quelling  the  impulse  with 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    37 

a  mighty  effort,  he  got  upon  his  feet  cr>'ing,  "Beloved,  stay! 
Beloved,  stay,  beloved!" 

And  he  staggered  round  the  Pond  as  quickly  as  his  shaking 
knees  would  let  him ;  but  quicker  still  she  slid  away,  and  when 
he  came  where  she  had  been  the  place  was  as  empty  as  the 
sky  in  its  moonless  season.  He  called  and  ran  about  and  called 
again ;  but  he  got  no  answer,  nor  found  what  he  sought.  All 
that  night  he  spent  in  calling  and  running  to  and  fro.  What 
he  did  on  Sunday  you  may  know,  and  I  may  know,  but  he  did 
not.  On  Sunday  night  he  stayed  beside  the  Pond,  but  what- 
ever his  hopes  were  they  received  no  fulfillment.  On  Monday 
night  he  was  there  again,  and  on  Tuesday,  and  on  Wednesday; 
and  between  the  mornings  and  the  nights  he  went  from  hill 
to  hill,  seeking  her  hiding-place  who  came  to  bathe  in  the  lake. 
There  was  not  a  hill  within  a  day's  march  that  did  not  know 
him,  from  Duncton  to  Mount  Harry.  But  on  none  of  them 
he  found  the  Woman.  Plow  he  lived  is  a  puzzle.  Perhaps 
upon  wild  raspberries. 

After  the  sun  had  set  on  Chanctonbury  on  Saturday  night, 
he  came  exhausted  to  the  Ring  again,  and  stood  on  that  high 
hill  gazing  earthward.  But  there  was  no  light  above  or  below, 
and  he  said: 

"I  have  lost  all.  For  the  earth  is  swallowed  in  blackness, 
and  the  Woman  has  disappeared  into  space,  and  I  myself  have 
cast  away  my  spiritual  initiation.  I  will  sit  by  the  Pond  till 
midnight,  and  if  the  bird  sings  then  I  will  still  hope,  but  if  it 
does  not  I  will  dip  my  head  in  the  water  and  not  lift  it  again." 

So  he  went  and  lay  down  by  the  Pond  in  the  darkness,  and 
the  hours  wore  away.  And  as  the  time  of  the  bird's  song  drew 
near  he  clasped  his  hands  and  prayed.  But  the  bird  did  not 
sing;  and  when  he  judged  that  midnight  was  come,  he  got  upon 
his  knees  and  prepared  to  put  his  head  under  the  water.  And 
as  he  did  so  he  saw,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Pond,  the  feeble 
light  of  a  lantern.  He  could  not  see  who  held  it,  because  even 
as  he  looked  the  bearer  blew  out  the  light ;  but  in  that  moment 
it  appeared  to  him  that  she  was  as  black  as  the  night  itself. 

So  for  awhile  he  knelt  upon  his  side,  and  she  remained  on 
hers,  both  trembling;  but  at  last  the  King,  dreading  to  startle 
her  av^ay,  rose  softly  and  went  round  the  Pond  to  where  he 
had  seen  her. 

He  said  into  the  night  in  a  shaking  voice,  "I  cannot  see  you. 
If  you  are  there,  give  me  your  hand." 


38    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

And  out  of  the  night  a  shaking  voice  replied: 

"It  is  so  dirty,  beloved." 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  felt  how  she  trembled, 
and  he  held  her  closely  to  him  to  still  her,  whispering: 

"You  are  my  Lad." 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.     "But  wait." 

And  she  slipped  out  of  his  embrace,  and  he  heard  her  enter 
the  Pond,  and  she  stayed  there  as  it  seemed  to  him  a  lifetime; 
but  presently  she  rose  up,  and  even  in  that  black  night  the 
whiteness  of  her  body  was  visible  to  him,  and  she  came  to  him 
as  she  was  and  laid  her  head  on  his  breast  and  said: 

"I  am  your  Woman." 

("I  want  my  apple,"  said  Martin  Pippm. 

"But  is  this  the  end  ?"  cried  little  Joan. 

"Why  not?"  said  Martin.     "The  lovers  are  united." 

Joscelyn:  Nonsense!  Of  course  it  is  not  the  end!  You 
must  tell  us  a  thousand  other  things.  Why  was  the  Woman 
a  woman  on  Saturday  night  and  a  lad  all  the  rest  of  the  week? 

Joyce:     What  of  the  four  jewels? 

Jennifer:  Which  of  the  answers  to  the  King's  riddle  was 
the  right  one? 

Jessica:     What  happened  to  the  cake? 

Jane:     What  was  her  name? 

"Please,"  said  little  Joan,  "do  not  let  this  be  the  end,  but 
tell  us  what  they  did  next." 

"Women  will  be  women,"  observed  Martin,  "and  to  the 
end  of  time  prefer  unessentials  to  the  essential.  But  I  will  en- 
deavor to  satisfy  you  on  the  points  you  name.") 

In  the  morning  William  said  to  his  beloved: 
"Now  tell  me  something  of  yourself.  How  come  you  to  be 
so  masterful  a  smith?  Why  do  you  live  as  a  black  Lad  all 
the  week  and  turn  only  into  a  white  Woman  on  Saturdays? 
Have  you  really  got  a  Great-Aunt,  and  where  does  she  live? 
How  old  are  you?  Why  were  you  so  hard  to  please  about 
the  shoeing  of  Pepper?  And  why,  the  better  my  shoes  the 
worse  your  temper?  Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  a  week 
ago?  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  who  you  were?  Why  have 
you  tormented  me  for  a  whole  month?  What  is  your  name?" 
"Trust  a  man  to  ask  questions !"  said  his  beloved,  laughing 
and  blushing.    "Is  it  not  enough  that  I  am  your  beloved?" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    39 

"More  than  enough,  yet  not  nearly  enough,"  said  the  King, 
"for  there  is  nothing  of  yourself  which  you  must  not  tell  me 
in  time,  from  the  moment  when  you  first  stole  barley  sugar 
behind  your  father's  back,  down  to  that  in  which  you  first 
loved  me." 

"Then  I  had  best  begin  at  once,"  she  smiled,  "or  a  lifetime 
will  not  be  long  enough.  I  am  eighteen  years  old  and  my  name 
is  Viola.  I  was  born  in  Falmer,  and  my  father  was  the  best 
smith  in  all  Sussex,  and  because  he  had  no  other  child  he  made 
me  his  bellows-boy,  and  in  time,  as  you  know,  taught  me  his 
trade.  But  he  was,  as  you  also  know,  a  stern  master,  and  it 
was  not  until,  on  my  sixteenth  birthday,  I  forged  a  shoe  the 
equal  of  your  last,  that  he  said  'I  could  not  make  a  better.' 
And  so  saying  he  died.  Now  I  had  no  other  relative  in  all 
the  world  except  my  Great-Aunt,  the  Wise  Woman  of  the 
Bush  Hovel,  and  her  I  had  never  seen ;  but  I  thought  I  could 
not  do  better  in  my  extremity  than  go  to  her  for  counsel.  So, 
shouldering  my  father's  tools,  I  journeyed  west  until  I  came 
to  her  place,  and  found  her  trying  to  break  in  a  new  birch- 
broom  that  was  still  too  green  and  full  of  sap  to  be  easily 
mastered ;  and  she  was  in  a  very  bad  temper.  'Good  day,  Great- 
Aunt,'  I  said,  'I  am  your  Great-Niece  Viola.'  'I  have  no  more 
use  for  great  nieces,'  she  snapped,  'than  for  little  ones.'  And 
she  continued  to  tussle  with  the  broomstick  and  took  no  further 
notice  of  me.  Then  I  went  into  the  Hovel,  where  a  fire 
burned  on  the  hearth,  and  I  took  out  my  tools  and  fashioned 
a  bit  on  the  hob ;  and  when  it  was  ready  I  took  it  to  her  and 
said,  'This  will  teach  it  its  manners' ;  and  she  put  the  bit  on 
the  broom,  which  became  as  docile  as  a  lamb.  'Great-Niece,' 
said  she,  'it  appears  that  I  told  you  a  lie  this  morning.  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?'  'Tell  me,  if  you  please,  how  I  am  to  live 
now  that  my  father  is  dead.'  'There  is  no  need  to  tell  you,' 
said  she;  'you  have  your  living  at  your  fingers'  ends.'  'But 
women  cannot  be  smiths,'  said  I.  'Then  become  a  lad,'  said 
she,  'and  ply  your  trade  where  none  knows  you ;  and  lest 
men  should  suspect  you  by  your  face,  which  fools  though  they 
be  they  might  easily  do,  let  it  be  so  sooted  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end  that  none  can  discover  what  you  look  like;  and  if 
any  one  remarks  on  it,  put  it  down  to  your  trade.'  'But  Great- 
Aunt,'  I  said,  'I  could  not  bear  to  go  dirty  from  week's  end  to 
week's  end.'  'If  you  will  be  so  particular,'  she  said,  'take  a 
bath  every  Saturday  night  and  spend  your  Sundays  with  me, 


40    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

as  fair  as  when  you  were  a  babe.  And  before  you  go  to  work 
again  on  ^Monday  you  shall  once  more  conceal  your  fair- 
ness past  all  men's  penetration.'  'But,  dear  Great-Aunt,'  I 
pleaded,  'it  may  be  that  the  day  will  come  when  I  might  not 
wish—'  " 

And  here,  dear  maidens,  Viola  faltered.  And  William  put 
his  arm  about  her  a  little  tighter — because  it  was  there  already 
— and  said,  "What  might  you  not  wish,  beloved?"  And  she 
murmured,  "To  be  concealed  past  one  man's  penetration.  And 
my  Great-Aunt  said  I  need  not  worry.  Because  though  men, 
she  said,  were  fools,  there  was  one  time  in  every  man's  life 
when  he  was  quick  enough  to  penetrate  all  obscurities,  whether 
it  were  a  layer  of  soot  or  a  night  without  a  moon."  And  she 
hid  her  face  on  the  King's  shoulder,  and  he  tried  to  kiss  her 
but  could  not  make  her  look  up  until  he  said,  "Or  even  a 
woman's  waywardness?"  Then  she  looked  up  of  her  own 
accord  and  kissed  him. 

"In  this  way,"  she  resumed,  "it  became  my  custom  on  each 
Saturday,  after  closing  the  forge,  to  come  here  with  my  woman's 
raiment,  and  wait  in  a  hollow  until  night  had  fallen,  and  make 
myself  clean  of  the  week's  blackness.  For  I  dared  not  do  this 
by  daylight,  or  be  seen  going  forth  from  the  forge  in  my  proper 
person." 

"But  why  did  you  choose  to  bathe  at  midnight?"  asked  the 
King. 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  hurriedly, 
"I  did  not  choose  to  bathe  at  midnight  until  a  month  ago. — 
For  the  rest,"  she  resumed,  "I  was  hard  to  please  in  the  matter 
of  the  shoes  because  I  knew  that  when  they  were  finished  you 
would  ride  away.  And  therefore  the  more  you  improved  the 
Grosser  I  became.  And  if  I  have  tormented  you  for  a  month 
it  was  because  you  tormented  me  by  refusing  to  speak  when 
you  saw  me  here,  in  spite  of  your  hateful  vow;  and  you  would 
not  even  look  at  my  cake  in  the  larder." 

"Women  are  strange,"  said  the  King.  "How  do  you  know 
I  did  not  look  at  the  cake?" 

"I  do  know,"  she  said  as  hurriedly  as  before.  "And  if  I 
would  not  tell  you  who  I  was,  it  was  because  I  could  not  bear, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  extort  from  you  a  love  you  seemed  so 
reluctant  to  endure;  until  indeed  it  became  of  its  own  accord 
too  strong  even  for  the  purpose  which  brought  you  every  week 
to  the  Ring.     For  I  knew  that  purpose,  since  all  dwellers  in 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    41 
Washington   know  why   men   go   up   the  hill   with   the   new 


moon." 


"But  when  my  love  did  become  too  strong  for  my  vow, 
and  opened  my  lips  at  last,"  said  the  King,  "why  did  you  run 
away?" 

Viola  said,  "Had  you  not  run  away  the  week  before?  And 
now  I  have  answered  all  your  questions." 

"No,"  said  the  King,  "not  all.  You  haven't  told  me  yet 
when  you  first  loved  me." 

Viola  smiled  and  said,  "I  first  stole  barley  sugar  when  my 
father  said  'This  is  for  the  other  little  girl  over  the  way' ;  and 
I  first  loved  you  when,  seeing  you  had  been  too  absent-minded 
to  know  that  Pepper  had  cast  her  shoes,  I  feared  you  were  in 
love." 

"But  that  was  three  minutes  after  we  met!"  cried  the  King. 

"Was  it  as  much  as  that!"  said  she. 

Now  after  awhile  Viola  said,  "Let  us  get  down  to  the  world 
again.     We  cannot  stay  here  for  ever." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  King.  However,  they  walked  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  and  stood  together  gazing  awhile  over  the 
sunlit  earth  that  had  never  been  so  beautiful  to  either  of  them; 
for  their  sight  was  newly-washed  with  love,  and  all  things  were 
changed. 

"Now  I  know  how  she  looks  from  heaven,"  said  the  King, 
"and  that  is  like  heaven  itself.  Let  us  go ;  for  I  think  she 
will  still  look  so  at  our  coming,  seeing  that  we  carry  heaven 
with  us." 

So  they  went  downhill  to  the  forge,  and  there  Viola  said  to 
her  lover,  "I  can  stay  no  longer  in  this  place  where  all  men 
have  known  me  as  a  lad ;  and  besides,  a  woman's  home  is  where 
her  husband  lives." 

"But  I  live  only  in  a  Barn,"  said  William  the  King. 

"Then  I  will  live  there  with  you,"  said  Viola,  "and  from  this 
very  night.  But  first  I  will  shoe  Pepper  anew,  for  she  is  so 
unequally  shod  that  she  might  spill  us  on  the  road.  And 
that  she  may  be  shod  worthily  of  herself  and  of  us,  give  me 
what  you  have  tied  up  in  your  blue  handkerchief."  The  King 
fetched  his  handkerchief  and  unknotted  it,  and  gave  her  his 
crown  and  scepter;  and  she  set  him  at  the  bellows  and  made 
three  golden  shoes  and  shod  the  nag  on  her  two  fore-feet  and 
her  off  hind-foot.  But  when  she  looked  at  the  near  hind-foot, 
which  the  King  had  shod  last  of  all,  she  said:  "I  could  not 


42    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

make  a  better.  And  therefore,  like  his  father,  the  Lad  must 
shut  his  smithy,  for  he  is  dead."  Then  she  put  the  three  shoes 
she  had  removed  into  a  bag  with  some  other  trifles;  and  while 
she  did  so  the  King  took  what  remained  of  the  gold  and  made 
it  into  two  rings.  This  done,  they  got  on  to  Pepper's  back, 
and  with  her  three  shoes  of  gold  and  one  of  iron  she  bore  them 
the  way  the  King  had  come.  When  they  passed  the  Bush 
Hovel  they  saw  the  Wise  Woman  currying  her  broomstick, 
and  Viola  cried: 

"Great-Aunt,  give  us  a  blessing." 

"Great-Niece,"  said  the  Wise  Woman,  "how  can  I  give  you 
what  you  already  have?  But  I  will  give  you  this."  And  she 
held  out  a  horseshoe. 

"Good  gracious,"  said  the  King,  "this  was  once  Pepper's." 

"It  was,"  said  the  Wise  Woman.  "In  her  merriment  at 
hearing  you  ask  a  silly  question,  she  cast  it  outside  my  door." 

A  little  further  on  they  came  to  the  Guess  Gate,  but  when 
the  King,  dismounting,  swung  it  open,  it  grated  on  something 
in  the  road.     He  stooped  and  lifted — a  horseshoe. 

"Wonder  of  wonders!"  exclaimed  the  King.  "This  also  was 
Pepper's.     What  shall  we  do  with  it?" 

"Hang — it — up — hang — it — up — hang — "  creaked  the  Gate; 
and  clicked  home. 

In  due  course  they  reached  the  Doves,  and  at  the  sound  of 
Pepper's  hoofs  the  Brothers  flocked  out  to  meet  them. 

"Is  all  well?"  cried  the  Ringdove,  seeing  the  King  only. 
"And  have  you  returned  to  us  for  the  final  blessing?" 

"I  have,"  replied  the  King,  "for  I  bring  my  bride  behind 
me,  and  now  you  must  make  us  one." 

The  gentle  Brothers,  rejoicing  at  the  sight  of  their  happi- 
ness and  their  beauty,  led  them  in ;  and  there  they  Avere  wedded. 
The  Doves  offered  them  to  eat,  but  the  King  was  impatient 
to  reach  his  Barn  by  nightfall;  so  they  got  again  on  Pepper's 
back,  and  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the  Ringdove  said: 

"I  have  something  of  yours  which  is  in  itself  a  thing  of  no 
moment;  yet,  because  it  is  of  good  augur/,  take  it  with  you." 

And  he  gave  the  King  Pepper's  third  shoe. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  King,  "I  will  hang  it  over  my  Barn 
door." 

Now  he  urged  Pepper  to  her  full  speed,  and  they  went  at 
a  gallop  past  the  Hawking  Sopers,  who,  hearing  the  clatter, 
came  running  into  the  road. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     43 
"Stay,  gallopers,  stay!"  they  cried,  "and  make  merry  with 


us." 


"We  cannot,"  called  the  King,  "for  we  are  newly  married." 

"Good  luck  to  you  then!"  shouted  the  Sopers,  and  with 
huzzas  and  laughter  flung  something  after  them.  Viola 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  caught  it  in  mid-air,  and  it  was  a 
horseshoe. 

"The  tale  is  complete,"  she  laughed,  "and  now  you  know 
where  Pepper  picked  up  her  stones." 

Soon  after  the  King  said,  "Here  is  my  Barn."  And  he  sprang 
down  and  lifted  his  bride  from  the  nag's  back  and  brought 
her  in. 

"It  is  a  poor  place,"  he  said  gently,  "but  it  is  all  I  have. 
What  can  I  do  for  you  in  such  a  home?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Viola,  and  putting  her  hand  into  her 
left  pocket,  she  drew  out  the  ruby  winking  with  the  wine  of 
mirth.  "You  can  dance  in  it."  And  suddenly  they  caught 
each  other  by  the  hands  and  went  capering  and  laughing  round 
the  Barn  like  children. 

"Hurrah !"  cried  William,  "now  I  know  what  a  King  should 
do  in  a  Barn!" 

"But  he  should  do  more  than  dance  in  it,"  said  Viola;  and 
putting  her  hand  into  her  right  pocket  she  gave  him  the  pearl, 
as  pure  as  a  prayer;  "beloved,  he  should  pray  in  it  too." 

And  William  looked  at  her  and  knelt,  and  she  knelt  by  him, 
and  in  silence  they  prayed  the  same  prayer,  side  by  side. 

Then  William  rose  and  said  simply,  "Now  I  know." 

But  she  knelt  still,  and  took  from  her  girdle  the  diamond, 
&?■  bright  as  power,  and  she  put  it  in  his  hand,  saying  very  low, 
"Oh,  my  dear  King!  but  he  should  also  rule  in  it."  And  she 
kissed  his  hand.  But  the  King  lifted  her  very  quickly  so  that 
she  stood  equal  with  his  heart,  and  embracing  her  he  said, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes: 

"And  you,  beloved!  what  will  a  Queen  do  in  a  Barn?" 

"The  same  as  a  King,"  she  whispered,  and  drew  from  her 
bosom  the  opal,  as  lovely  and  as  variable  as  the  human  spirit. 
"With  the  other  three  stones  you  may,  if  you  will,  buy  back 
your  father's  kingdom.  But  this,  which  contains  all  qualities 
in  one,  let  us  keep  for  ever,  for  our  children  and  theirs,  that 
they  may  know  there  is  nothing  a  King  and  a  Queen  may  not 
do  in  a  Barn,  or  a  man  and  a  woman  anywhere.  But  the  best 
thing  they  can  do  is  to  work  in  it." 


U    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Then,  going  out,  she  came  back  with  the  bag  which  she 
had  slung  on  Pepper's  back,  and  took  from  it  her  father's 
tools. 

"In  three  weeks  you  learned  all  I  learned  in  three  years," 
said  she.  "When  I  shod  Pepper  this  morning  I  did  my  last  job 
as  a  smith;  for  now  I  shall  have  other  work  to  do.  But  you, 
whether  you  choose  to  get  your  father's  lands  again  or  no, 
I  pray  to  work  in  the  trade  I  have  given  you,  for  I  have  made 
you  the  very  king  of  smiths,  and  all  men  should  do  the  thing 
they  can  do  best.  So  take  the  hammer  and  nail  up  the  horse- 
shoes over  the  door  while  I  get  supper;  for  you  look  as  hun- 
gry as  I  feel." 

"But  there's  nothing  to  eat,"  sai<l  the  King  ruefully. 

However,  he  went  outside,  and  over  the  door  he  hung  as 
many  shoes  as  there  are  nails  in  one — the  four  Pepper  had 
cast  on  the  road,  and  the  three  he  had  first  made  her.  As  he 
drove  the  last  nail  home  Viola  called: 

"Supper  is  ready." 

And  the  King  went  into  the  Barn  and  saw  a  Wedding 
Cake. 

And  now,  if  you  please,  Mistress  Joan,  I  have  earned  my 
apple. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

NOW  there  was  a  great  munching  of  apples  in  the  tree, 
for  to  tell  the  truth  during  the  latter  part  of  the  story 
this  business  had  been  suspended,  and  between  bites  the 
milkmaids  discussed  the  merits  of  what  they  had  just  heard. 

Jessica:     What  is  your  opinion  of  this  tale,  Jane? 

Jane:  It  surprised  me  more  than  anything.  For  who 
could  have  suspected  that  the  Lad  was  a  Woman? 

Martin:  Lads  are  to  be  suspected  of  any  mischief,  Mis- 
tress Jane. 

Joscelyn:  It  is  not  to  be  supposed.  Master  Pippin,  that 
we  are  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  lads. 

Martin  :  I  suppose  nothing.  But  did  the  story  please 
you? 

Joscelyn  :  As  a  story  it  was  well  enough  to  pass  an  hour. 
I  would  be  willing  to  learn  whether  the  King  regained  his 
kingdom  or  no. 

Martin  :  I  think  he  did,  since  you  may  go  to  this  day  to 
the  little  city  on  the  banks  of  the  Adur  which  is  re-named 
after  his  Barn.  But  I  doubt  whether  he  lived  there,  or  any- 
where but  in  the  Barn  where  he  and  his  beloved  began  their 
life  of  work  and  prayer  and  mirth  and  loving-rule.  And  died 
as  happily  as  they  had  lived. 

Joan  :  I  am  glad  they  lived  happily.  I  was  afraid  the  tale 
would  end  unhappily. 

Joyce:  And  so  was  I.  For  when  the  King  roamed  the 
hills  for  a  whole  week  without  success,  I  began  to  fear  he 
would  never  find  the  Woman  again. 

Jennifer:  I  for  my  part  feared  lest  he  should  not  open 
his  lips  during  the  fourth  vigil,  and  so  must  become  a  Dove 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days. 

Jane:  It  was  but  by  the  grace  of  a  moment  he  did  not 
drown  himself  in  the  Pond. 

Jessica:  Or  what  if,  by  some  unlucky  chance,  he  had  never 
come  to  the  forge  at  all? 

Martin:     In   any   oi   these  events,   I   grant  you,   the   tale 

45 


46    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

must  have  ended  in  disaster.  And  this  is  the  special  wonder 
of  love-tales :  that  though  they  may  end  unhappily  in  a  thousand 
ways,  and  happily  in  only  one,  yet  that  one  will  vanquish  the 
thousand  as  often  as  the  desires  of  lovers  run  in  tandem.  But 
there  is  one  accident  you  have  left  out  of  count,  and  it  is  the 
worst  stumbling-block  I  know  of  in  the  path  of  happy  endings. 

All  the  Milkmaids:     What  is  it? 

Martin:  Suppose  the  lovely  Viola  had  been  a  sworn  vir- 
gin and  a  hater  of  men. 

There  was  silence  in  the  Apple-Orchard. 

Joscelyn:  She  would  have  been  none  the  worse  for  that, 
singer.  And  the  tale  would  have  been  none  the  less  a  tale, 
which  is  all  we  look  for  from  you.  This  talk  of  happy  end- 
ings is  silly  talk.  The  King  might  have  sought  the  Woman 
in  vain,  or  kept  his  vow,  or  drowned  himself,  or  ridden  to  the 
confines  of  Kent,  for  aught  I  care. 

Joyce:     Or  I. 

Jennifer:     Or  I. 

Jessica:     Or  I. 

Jane:     Or  I. 

Martin:  I  am  silenced.  Tales  are  but  tales,  and  not 
worth  speculation.  And  see,  the  moon  is  gone  to  sleep  behind 
a  cloud,  which  shows  us  nothing  save  the  rainbow  of  her 
rireams.     It  is  time  we  did  as  she  does. 

Like  shooting-stars  in  August  the  milkmaids  slid  from  their 
leafy  heaven  and  dropped  to  the  grass.  And  here  they  pillowed 
their  heads  on  their  soft  arms  and  soon  were  breathing  the 
breath  of  sleep.     But  little  Joan  sat  on  in  the  swing. 

Now  all  this  while  she  had  kept  between  her  hands  the 
promised  apple,  turning  and  turning  it  like  one  in  doubt;  and 
presently  Martin  looked  aside  at  her  with  a  smile,  and  held 
his  open  palm  to  receive  his  reward.  And  first  she  glanced 
at  him,  and  then  at  the  sleepers,  and  last  she  tossed  the  apple 
lightly  in  the  air.  But  by  some  mishap  she  tossed  it  too  high, 
and  it  made  an  arc  clean  over  the  tree  and  fell  in  a  distant 
corner  by  the  hedge.  So  she  ran  quickly  to  recover  it  for 
him,  and  he  ran  likewise,  and  they  stooped  and  rose  together, 
she  with  the  apple  in  her  hands,  he  with  his  hands  on  hers. 
At  which  she  blushed  a  little,  but  held  fast  to  the  fruit. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    47 

"What!"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "am  I  never  to  have  my 
apple?" 

She  answered  softly,  "Only  when  I  am  satisfied,  as  you 
promised." 

"And  are  you  not?    What  have  I  left  undone?" 

Joan:  Please,  Master  Pippin.  What  did  the  j^oung  King 
look  like? 

Martin:  Fool  that  I  am  to  leave  these  vital  things  un- 
told! I  shall  avoid  this  error  in  future.  He  was  more  than 
middle  tall,  and  broad  in  the  shoulders;  and  he  had  gray-blue 
eyes,  and  a  fresh  color,  and  a  kind  and  merry  look,  and  dark 
brown  hair  that  was  not  always  as  sleek  as  he  wished  it  to  be. 

Joan:    Oh! 

Martin:  With  this  further  oddity,  that  above  the  nape 
of  his  neck  was  a  whitish  tuft  which,  though  he  took  great 
pains  to  conceal  it,  continually  obtruded  through  the  darker 
hair  like  the  cottontail  on  the  back  of  a  rabbit. 

Joan:    Oh!    Oh! 

And  she  became  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

Martin:     May  I  have  my  apple? 

Joan:     But  had  not  he  a — mustache? 

Martin  :     He  fondly  believed  so. 

Joan  (with  unexpected  fire)  :  It  was  a  big  and  beautiful 
mustache ! 

Martin  (fervently)  :  There  was  never  a  King  of  twenty 
years  with  one  so  big  and  beautiful. 

She  gave  him  the  apple. 

Martin  :  Thank  you.  Will  you,  because  I  have  answered 
many  questions,  now  answer  one? 

Joan  :     Yes. 

Martin:  Then  tell  me  this — what  is  your  quarrel  with 
men? 

Joan:  Oh,  Master  Pippin!  they  say  that  one  and  one 
make  two. 

Martin:  Is  it  possible?  Good  heavens,  are  men  such 
numskulls!  When  they  have  but  to  go  to  the  littlest  woman 
on  earth  to  learn — what  you  and  I  well  know — that  one  and 
one  make_  one,  and  sometimes  three,  or  four,  or  even  half-a- 
dozen  ;  but  never  two.     Fie  upon  these  men ! 

Joan:  I  am  glad  you  think  I  am  in  the  right.  But  how 
obstinate  they  are! 


48    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Martin  :  As  obstinate  as  children,  and  should  be  birched 
as  roundly. 

Joan  :     Oh !  but —    You  would  not  birch  children. 

Martin  :     You  are  right  again.    They  should  be  coaxed. 

Joan:     Yes,     No.     I  mean —    Good  night,  dear  singer. 

Martin:  Good  night,  dear  milkmaid.  Sleep  sweetly 
among  your  comrades  who  are  wiser  than  we,  being  so  indif- 
ferent to  happy  endings  that  they  would  never  unpadlock  sor- 
row, though  they  had  the  key  in  their  keeping. 

Then  he  took  her  hands  in  one  of  his,  and  put  his  other 
hand  very  gently  under  her  chin,  and  lifted  it  till  he  could 
look  into  her  face,  and  he  said :  "Give  me  the  key  to  Gillian's 
prison,  little  Joan,  because  you  love  happy  endings." 

Joan:     Dear  Martin,  I  cannot  give  you  the  key. 

Martin:     Why  not? 

Joan:     Because  I  stuck  it  inside  your  apple„ 

So  he  kissed  her  and  they  parted,  and  lay  down  and  slept; 
she  among  her  comrades  under  the  apple-tree,  and  he  under 
the  briony  in  the  hedge;  and  the  moon  came  out  of  her  dream 
and  watched  theirs. 

With  morning  came  a  hoarse  voice  calling  along  the  hedge: 

"Maids!  maids!  maids!" 

Up  sprang  the  milkmaids,  rubbing  their  eyes  and  stretching 
their  arms;  and  up  sprang  Martin  likewise.  And  seeing  him, 
Joscelyn  was  stricken  with  dismay. 

"It  is  Old  Gillman,  our  master,"  she  whispered,  "come  with 
bread  and  questions.  Quick,  singer,  quick!  into  the  hollow 
russet  before  he  reaches  the  hole  in  the  hedge." 

Swiftly  the  milkmaids  hustled  Martin  into  the  russet  tree, 
and  concealed  him  at  the  very  moment  when  the  Farmer  was 
come  to  the  peephole,  filling  it  with  his  round  red  face  and 
broad  gray  fringe  of  whiskers,  like  the  winter  sun  on  a  sky 
that  is  going  to  snow. 

"Good  morrow,  maids,"  quoth  Old  Gillman. 

"Good  morrow,  master,"  said  they. 

"Is  my  daughter  come  to  her  mind  yet?" 

"No,  master,"  said  little  Joan,  "but  I  begin  to  have  hopes 
that  she  may." 

"If  she  do  not,"  groaned  Gillman,  "I  know  not  what  will 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    49 

happen  to  the  farmstead.  For  it  is  six  months  now  since  I 
tasted  water,  and  how  can  a  man  follow  his  business  who  is 
fuddled  day  and  night  with  Barley  Wine?  Life  is  full  of 
hardships,  of  which  daughters  are  the  greatest.  Gillian!"  he 
cried,  "when  will  ye  come  into  your  senses  and  out  of  the 
Well-House?" 

But  Gillian  took  no  more  heed  of  him  than  of  the  quacking 
of  the  drake  on  the  duckpond. 

"Well,  here  is  your  bread,"  said  Gillman,  and  he  thrust  a 
basket  with  seven  loaves  in  it  through  the  gap.  "And  may 
to-morrow  bring  better  tidings." 

"One  moment,  dear  master,"  entreated  little  Joan.  "Tell 
me,  please,  how  Nancy  my  Jersey  fares." 

"Pines  for  you,  pines  for  you,  maid,  though  Charles  does 
his  best  by  her.  But  it  is  as  though  she  had  taken  a  vow  to 
let  down  no  milk  till  you  come  again.  Rack  and  ruin,  rack 
and  ruin!" 

And  the  old  man  retreated  as  he  had  come,  muttering  "Rack 
and  ruin!"  the  length  of  the  hedge. 

The  maids  then  set  about  preparing  breakfast,  which  was 
simplicity  itself,  being  bread  and  apples  than  which  no  break- 
fast could  be  sweeter.  There  was  a  loaf  for  each  maid  and 
one  over  for  Gillian,  which  they  set  upon  the  wall  of  the 
Well-House,  taking  away  yesterday's  loaf  untouched  and  stale. 

"Does  she  never  eat?"  asked  Martin. 

"She  has  scarcely  broken  bread  in  six  months,"  said  Joscelyn, 
"and  what  she  lives  on  besides  her  thoughts  we  do  not  know." 

"Thoughts  are  a  fast  or  a  feast  according  to  their  nature," 
said  Martin,  "so  let  us  feed  the  ducks,  who  have  none." 

They  broke  the  stale  bread  into  fragments,  and  when  the 
ducks  had  made  a  meal,  returned  to  their  own;  and  of  two 
loaves  made  seven  parts,  that  Martin  might  have  his  share, 
and  to  this  they  added  apples  according  to  their  fancies,  red 
or  russet,   green   or  golden. 

After  breakfast,  at  Martin's  suggestion,  they  made  little 
boats  of  twigs  and  leaves  and  sailed  them  on  the  duckpond, 
where  they  met  with  many  adventures  and  calamities  from 
driftweed,  small  breezes,  and  the  curiosity  of  the  ducks.  And 
before  they  were  aware  of  it  the  dinner  hour  was  upon  them, 
when  they  divided  two  more  loaves  as  before  and  ate  apples 
at  will. 

Then  Martin,  taking  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  pro- 


50    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

posed  a  game  of  Blindman's-Buff,  and  the  girls,  delighted, 
counted  Eener-Meener-Meiner-Mo  to  find  the  Blindman.  And 
Joyce  was  He.  So  Martin  tied  the  handkerchief  over  her 
eyes. 

"Can  you  see?"  asked  Martin. 

"Of  course  I  can't  see!"  said  Joyce. 

"Promise?"  said   Martin. 

"I  hope,  Master  Pippin,"  said  Jane  reprovingly,  "that  you 
can  take  a  girl's  word  for  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  I  can,"  said  Martin,  and  turned  Joyce 
round  three  times,  and  ran  for  his  life.  And  Joyce  caught 
Jane  on  the  spot  and  guessed  her  immediately. 

Then  Jane  was  blindfolded,  and  she  was  so  particular  about 
not  seeing  that  it  was  quite  ten  minutes  before  she  caught 
Jennifer,  but  she  knew  who  she  was  by  the  feel  of  her  gown; 
and  Jennifer  caught  Joscelyn,  and  guessed  her  by  her  girdle; 
and  Joscelyn  caught  Jessica  and  guessed  her  by  the  darn  in 
her  sleeve;  and  Jessica  caught  Joan,  and  guessed  her  by  her 
ribbon;  and  Joan  caught  Martin,  and  guessed  him  by  his  dif- 
ference. 

So  then  Martin  was  Blindman,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he 
would  never  have  eyes  again;  for  though  he  caught  all  the 
girls,  one  after  another,  he  couldn't  guess  which  was  which, 
and  gave  Jane's  nose  to  Jessica,  and  Jessica's  hands  to  Joscelyn, 
and  Joscelyn's  chin  to  Joyce,  and  Joyce's  hair  to  Jennifer,  and 
Jennifer's  eyebrows  to  Joan;  but  when  he  caught  Joan  he 
guessed  her  at  once  by  her  littleness. 

In  due  course  the  change  of  light  told  them  it  was  supper- 
time;  and  with  great  surprise  they  ate  the  last  two  loaves  to 
the  sweet  accompaniment  of  the  apples. 

"I  would  never  have  supposed,"  said  Joscelyn,  as  they  gath- 
ered under  the  central  tree  at  the  close  of  the  meal,  "that  a 
day  could  pass  so  quickly." 

"Bait  time  with  a  diversion,"  said  Martin,  "and  he  will 
run  like  a  donkey  after  a  dangled  carrot." 

"It  has  nearly  been  the  happiest  day  of  ray  life,"  said  Joyce 
with  a  sly  glance  at  Martin. 

"And  why  not  quite?"  said  he. 

"Because  it  has  lacked  a  story,  singer,"  she  said  demurexy. 

"What  can  be  rectified,"  said  Martin,  "must  be;  and  the 
day  is  not  yet  departed,  but  still  lingers  like  a  listener  on  the 
threshold  of  night.     So  set  the  swing  in  motion,  dear  Mistress 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    51 

Joyce,  and  to  its  measure  I  will  endeavor  to  swing  my  thoughts, 
which  have  till  now  been  laggards." 

With  these  words  he  set  Joyce  in  the  swing  and  himself 
upon  the  branch  beside  it  as  before.  And  the  other  milkmaids 
climbed  into  their  perches,  rustling  the  fruit  down  from  the 
shaken  boughs ;  and  he  made  of  Joyce's  lap  a  basket  for  the  har- 
vest. And  he  and  each  of  the  maids  chose  an  apple  as  though 
supper  had  not  been. 

"We  are  listening,"  said  Joscelyn  from  above. 

"Not  all  of  you,"  said  Martin.  And  he  looked  up  at  Josce- 
lyn alert  on  her  branch,  and  down  at  Gillian  prone  on  the 
steps. 

"You  are  here  for  no  other  purpose,"  said  Joscelyn,  "than  to 
make  them  listen  that  will  not.  I  would  not  have  you  think 
we  desire  to  listen." 

"I  think  nothing  but  that  you  are  the  prey  of  circumstances," 
said  Martin,  "constrained  like  flowers  to  bear  witness  to  that 
which  is  against  all  nature." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Joscelyn.  "Flowers  are 
nature  itself." 

"So  men  have  agreed,"  replied  Martin,  "yet  who  but  men 
have  compelled  them  repeatedly  to  assert  such  unnaturalnesses 
as  that  foxes  wear  gloves  and  cuckoos  shoes?  Out  on  the 
pretty  fibbers!" 

"Please  do  not  be  angry  with  the  flowers,"  said  Joan. 

"How  could  I  be?"  said  Martin.  "The  flowers  must  always 
be  forgiven,  because  their  inconsistencies  lie  always  at  men's 
doors.     Besides,  who  does  not  love  fairy-tales?" 

Then  Martin  kicked  his  heels  against  the  tree  and  sang 
idly:  * 

When  cuckoos  fly  in  shoes 
And  foxes  run  in  gloves. 
Then  butterflies  ivon't  go  in  twos 
And  boys  ivill  leave  their  loves. 

"A  silly  song,"  said  Joscelyn. 

Martin:  If  you  say  so.  For  my  part  I  can  never  tell  the 
difference  between  silliness  and  sense. 

Jane:  Then  how  can  a  good  song  be  told  from  a  bad? 
You  must  go  by  something. 

Martin:  I  go  by  the  sound.  But  since  Mistress  Joscelyn 
pronounces  my  song  silly,  I  can  only  suppose  she  has  seen 
cuckoos  flying  in  shoes. 


52    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

JoscELYN :  You  are  always  supposing  nonsense.  Who  ever 
heard  of  cuckoos  flying  in  shoes? 

Jane:     Or  of  foxes  running  in  gloves? 

Joan:     Or  of  butterflies  going  in  ones? 

Martin:     Or  of  boys — 

Joscelyn:  I  have  frequently  seen  butterflies  going  in  ones, 
foolish  Joan.  And  the  argument  was  not  against  butterflies, 
but  cuckoos. 

Martin  :  And  their  shoes.  Please,  dear  Mistress  Joan,  do 
not  look  so  downcast,  nor  you,  dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  so 
vexed.  Let  us  see  if  we  cannot  turn  a  more  sensible  song  upon 
this  theme. 

And  he  sang — 

Cuckoo  Shoes  aren't  cuckoos'  shoes. 

They're  shoes  ivhich  cuckoos  never  don; 

And  cuckoo  nests  aren't  cuckoos'  nests, 
But  other  birds'  for  a  moment  gone; 

And  nothing  that  the  cuckoo  has 
But  he  does  make  a  mock  upon. 

For  even  luhen  the  cuckoo  sings 

He  only  says  ivhat  isn't  true — 
When  happy  lovers  first  svaore  oaths 

An  artful  cuckoo   called  and  fle-iv. 
Yes!  and  when  lovers  voeep  like  dew 

The  teasing   cuckoo   laughs   Cuckoo! 

What  need  for  tears?     Cuckoo,  cuckoo! 

As  Martin  ended,  Gillian  raised  herself  upon  an  elbow, 
and  looked  no  more  into  the  green  grass,  but  across  the  green 
duckpond. 

"The  second  song  seems  to  me  as  irrelevant  as  the  first," 
said  Joscelyn,  "but  I  observe  that  you  cuckooed  so  loudly  as 
to  startle  our  mistress  out  of  her  inattention.  So  if  you  mean 
to  tell  us  another  story,  by  all  means  tell  it  now.  Not  that  I 
care,  except  for  our  extremity." 

"It  is  my  only  object  to  ease  it,"  said  Martin,  "so  bear  with 
me  as  well  as  you  may  during  the  recital  of  Young  Gerard." 


YOUNG  GERARD 

THERE  was  once,  dear  maidens,  a  shepherd  who  kept 
his  master's  sheep  on  Amberley  Mount.  His  name  was 
Gerard,  and  he  was  always  called  Young  Gerard  to 
distinguish  him  from  the  other  shepherd  who  was  known  as 
Old  Gerard,  yet  was  not,  as  you  might  suppose,  his  father. 
Their  master  was  the  Lord  of  Combe  Ivy  that  lay  in  the 
southern  valleys  of  the  hills  toward  the  sea ;  he  owned  the  graz- 
ing on  the  whole  circle  of  the  Downs  between  the  two  great 
roads — on  Amberley  and  Perry  and  Wepham  and  Blackpatch 
and  Cockhill  and  Highdovvn  and  Barnsfarm  and  Sullington  and 
Chantry.  But  the  two  Gerards  lived  together  in  the  great 
shed  behind  the  copse  between  Rackham  Hill  and  Kithurst, 
and  the  way  they  came  to  do  so  was  this. 

One  night  in  April  when  Old  Gerard's  gray  beard  was  still 
brown,  the  door  of  the  shed  was  pushed  open,  letting  in  not 
only  the  winds  of  Spring  but  a  woman  wrapped  in  a  green 
cloak,  with  a  lining  of  cherry-color  and  a  border  of  silver 
flowers  and  golden  cherries.  In  one  hand  she  swung  a  crystal 
lantern  set  in  a  silver  frame,  but  it  had  no  light  in  it;  and  in 
the  other  she  held  a  small  slip  of  a  cherry-tree,  but  it  had  no 
bloom  on  it.  Her  dress  was  white,  or  had  been ;  for  the  skirts 
of  it,  and  her  mantle,  were  draggled  and  sodden,  and  her  green 
shoes  stained  and  torn,  and  her  long  fair  hair  lay  limp  and 
dank  upon  her  mantle  whose  hood  had  fallen  away,  and  the 
shadows  round  her  blue  eyes  were  as  black  as  pools  under 
hedgerows  thawing  after  a  frost,  and  her  lovely  face  was  as 
white  as  the  snowbanks  they  bed  in.  Behind  her  came  another 
woman  in  a  duffle  cloak,  a  crone  with  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and 
a  skin  as  brown  as  beechnuts,  and  unkempt  hair  like  the  fire- 
less  smoke  of  Old  Man's  Beard  straying  where  it  will  on  the 
November  woodsides.  She  too  was  wet  and  soiled,  but  full 
of  life  where  the  young  one  seemed  full  of  death. 

The  Shepherd  looked  at  this  strange  pair  and  said  surlily, 
"What  want  ye?" 

"Shelter,"  replied  the  crone. 

53 


54    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

She  pushed  the  lady,  who  never  spoke,  into  the  shed,  and 
took  from  her  shoulders  the  wet  mantle,  and  from  her  hands 
the  lantern  and  the  tree ;  and  led  her  to  the  Shepherd's  bed  and 
laid  her  down.  Then  she  spread  the  mantle  over  the  Shep- 
herd's bench  and, 

"Lie  there,"  said  she,  "till  love  warms  ye." 

Next  she  hung  the  lantern  up  on  a  nail  in  the  wall,  and, 

"Swing  there,"  said  she,  "till  love  lights  ye." 

Last  she  took  the  Shepherd's  trowel  and  went  outside  the 
shed,  and  set  the  cherry-slip  beside  the  door.     And  she  said: 

"Grow  there,  till  love  blossoms  ye." 

After  this  she  came  inside  and  sat  down  at  the  bedhead. 

Gerard  the  Shepherd,  who  had  watched  her  proceedings  with- 
out word  or  gesture,  said  to  himself,  "They've  come  through 
the  floods." 

He  looked  across  at  the  women  and  raised  his  voice  to  ask, 
"Did  ye  come  through  the  floods?" 

The  lady  moaned  a  little,  and  the  crone  said,  "Let  her  be 
and  go  to  sleep.  What  does  it  matter  where  we  came  from 
by  night?  By  daybreak  we  shall  both  of  us  be  gone  no  matter 
whither." 

The  Shepherd  said  no  more,  for  though  he  was  both  curious 
and  ill-tempered  he  had  not  the  courage  to  disturb  the  lady, 
knowing  by  the  richness  of  her  attire  that  she  was  of  the  qual- 
ity; and  the  iron  of  serfdom  was  driven  deep  into  his  soul. 
So  he  went  to  sleep  on  his  stool,  as  he  had  been  bidden.  But 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was  awakened  by  a  gusty  wind 
and  the  banging  of  his  door;  and  he  started  up  rubbing  his 
knuckles  in  his  eyes,  saying,  "I've  been  dreaming  of  strange 
women,  but  was  it  a  dream  or  no?"  He  peered  about  the 
shed,  and  the  crone  had  vanished  utterly,  but  the  lady  still  lay 
on  his  bed.  And  when  he  went  over  to  look  at  her,  she  was 
dead.  But  beside  her  lay  a  newborn  child  that  opened  its  eyes 
and  wailed  at  him. 

Then  the  Shepherd  ran  to  his  open  door  and  stared  into  the 
blov%ing  night,  but  there  were  no  more  signs  of  the  crone 
without  than  there  were  within.  So  he  fastened  tLe  latch  and 
came  back  to  the  bedside,  and  examined  the  child. — 

(But  at  this  point  Martin  Pippin  interrupted  himself,  ^nd 
seizing  the  rope  of  the  swing  set  it  rocking  violently. 
Joyce:    I  shall  fall!    I  shall  fall! 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    55 

Martin  :  Then  you  will  be  no  worse  off  than  I,  who  have 
fallen  already.     For  I  see  you  do  not  like  my  story. 

Joyce:     What  makes  you  say  so? 

Martin  :  Till  now  you  listened  with  all  your  ears,  but  a 
moment  ago  you  turned  away  your  head  a  moment  too  late 
to  hide  the  disappointment  in  your  eyes. 

Joyce:  It  is  true  I  am  disappointed.  Because  the  beautiful 
lady  is  dead,  and  how  can  a  love-story  be,  if  half  the  lovers  are 
dead? 

Martin:  Dear  Mistress  Joyce,  what  has  love  to  do  with 
death?  I.ove  and  death  are  strangers  and  speak  in  different 
tongues.  Women  may  die  and  men  may  die,  but  lovers  are 
ignorant  of  mortality. 

Joyce  {pouting) :  That  may  be,  singer.  But  lovers  are 
also  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  the  woman  is  dead,  and  the  love- 
tale  ended  before  we  have  even  heard  it.  You  should  not  have 
let  the  woman  die.  What  sort  of  love-tale  is  this,  now  the 
woman  is  dead  ? 

Martin:  Are  not  more  nests  than  one  built  in  a  spring- 
time?— Give  me,  I  pray  you,  two  hairs  of  your  head. 

She  plucked  two  and  gave  them  to  him,  turning  her  pouting 
to  laughing.  One  of  them  Martin  coiled  and  held  before  his 
lips,  and  blew  on  it. 

"There  it  flies,"  said  he,  and  gave  her  back  the  second  hair. 
"Hold  fast  by  this  and  keep  it  from  its  fellow  with  all  your 
might,  for  to  part  true  mates  baffles  the  forces  of  the  universe. 
And  when  you  give  me  this  second  hair  again  I  swear  I  will 
send  it  where  it  will  find  its  fellow.  But  I  will  never  ask  for 
it  until,  my  story  ended,  you  say  to  me,  'I  am  content.'  ") 

Examining  the  child  {repeated  Martin)  the  Shepherd  dis- 
covered it  to  be  a  lusty  boy-child,  and  this  rejoiced  him,  so  that 
while  the  baby  wept  he  laughed  aloud. 

"It  is  better  to  weep  for  something  than  for  nothing,"  said 
he,  "and  to  laugh  for  something  likewise.  Tears  are  for  serfs 
and  laughter  is  for  freedmen."  For  he  had  conceived  the  plan 
of  selling  the  child  to  his  master,  the  Lord  of  Combe  Ivy, 
and  buying  his  freedom  with  the  purchase  money.  So  in  the 
morning  he  carried  the  body  of  the  lady  into  the  heart  of  the 
copse,  and  there  he  dug  a  grave  and  laid  her  in  it  in  her  white 
gown.  And  afterwards  he  went  up  hill  and  down  dale  to  his 
master,  and  said  he  had  a  man  {<s>r  sale.    The  Lord  of  Combe 


56    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Ivy,  who  was  a  jovial  lord  and  a  bachelor,  laughed  at  the  tale 
he  had  to  tell;  but  being  always  of  the  humor  for  a  jest  he 
paid  the  Shepherd  a  gold  piece  for  the  child,  and  promised  him 
another  each  midnight  on  the  anniversary  of  its  birth;  but  on 
the  twenty-first  anniversary,  he  said,  the  Shepherd  was  to  bring 
him  back  the  twenty-one  gold  pieces  he  had  received,  and  in- 
stead of  adding  another  to  them  he  would  take  them  again, 
and  make  the  serf  a  freedman,  and  the  child  his  serf. 

'Tor,"  said  the  Lord  of  Combe  Ivy,  "an  infant  is  a  poor 
deal  for  a  man  in  his  prime,  as  you  are,  but  a  youth  come  to 
manhood  is  a  good  exchange  for  a  graybeard,  as  you  will  be. 
Therefore  rear  this  babe  as  you  please,  and  if  he  live  to  man- 
hood so  much  the  better  for  you,  but  if  he  die  first  it's  all  one 
to  me." 

The  Shepherd  had  hoped  for  a  better  bargain,  but  he  must 
needs  be  content  with  seeing  liberty  at  a  distance.  So  he  re- 
turned to  his  shed  on  the  hills  and  made  a  leather  purse  to 
keep  his  gold-piece  in,  and  hung  it  round  his  neck,  touching  it 
fifty  times  a  day  under  his  shirt  to  be  sure  it  was  still  there. 
And  presently  he  sought  among  his  ewes  one  who  had  borne  her 
young,  saying,  "You  shall  mother  two  instead  of  one."  And 
the  baby  sucked  the  ewe  like  her  very  lamb,  and  thrived  upon 
the  milk.  And  the  shepherd  called  the  child  Gerard  after 
himself,  "since,"  he  said,  "it  is  as  good  a  name  for  a  shepnerd 
as  another";  and  from  that  time  they  became  the  Young  and' 
Old  Gerards  to  all  who  knew  them. 

So  the  Young  Gerard  grew  up,  and  as  he  grew  the  cherry- 
tree  grew  likewise,  but  in  the  strangest  fashion;  for  though 
it  flourished  past  all  expectation,  it  never  put  forth  either  leaf 
or  blossom.  This  bitterly  vexed  Old  Gerard,  who  had  hoped 
in  time  for  fruit,  and  the  frustration  of  his  hopes  became  to  him 
a  cause  of  grievance  against  the  boy.  A  further  grudge  was 
that  by  no  manner  of  means  could  he  succeed  in  lighting  any 
wick  or  candle  in  the  silver  lantern,  of  which  he  desired  to 
make  use. 

"But  if  your  tree  and  your  lantern  won't  work,"  said  he, 
"it's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't."  So  he  put  Young  Gerard 
to  work,  first  as  sheepboy  to  his  own  flock,  but  later  the  boy 
had  a  flock  of  his  own.  There  was  no  love  lost  between  these 
two,  and  kicks  and  curses  were  the  young  one's  fare ;  for  he  was 
often  idle  and  often  a  truant,  and  none  was  held  responsible 
for  him  except  the  old  shepherd  who  was  selling  him  piece- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    57 

meal,  year  by  year,  to  their  master.  Because  of  what  depended 
on  him,  Old  Gerard  was  constrained  to  show  him  some  sort  of 
care  when  he  would  liever  have  wrung  his  neck.  The  boy's 
fits  exasperated  the  man ;  whether  he  was  cutting  strange  capers 
and  laughing  without  reason,  as  he  frequently  did,  or  sitting  a 
whole  evening  in  a  morose  dream,  staring  at  the  fire  or  at  the 
stars,  and  saying  never  a  word.  The  boy's  coloring  was  as 
mingled  as  his  moods,  a  blend  of  light  and  dark — black  hair, 
brown  skin,  blue  eyes  and  golden  lashes,  a  very  odd  anomaly. 

(Martin:    What  is  it.  Mistress  Joyce? 
Joyce:    I  said  nothing.  Master  Pippin. 
Martin  :     I  thought  I  heard  you  sigh. 
Joyce:     I  did  not — you  did  not. 
Martin:     My  imagination  exceeds  all  bounds.) 

Because  of  their  mutual  dislike,  when  the  boy  was  put  in 
charge  of  his  own  sheep  the  two  shepherds  spent  their  days 
apart.  The  Old  Gerard  grazed  his  flock  to  the  east  as  far  as 
Chantr>%  but  the  Young  Gerard  grazed  his  flock  to  the  west  as 
far  as  Amberley,  whose  lovely  dome  was  dearer  to  him  than 
all  the  other  hills  of  Sussex.  And  here  he  would  sit  all  day 
watching  the  cloud-shadows  stalk  over  the  face  of  the  Downs, 
or  supping  along  the  land  below  him,  with  the  sun  running 
swiftly  after,  like  a  carpet  of  light  unrolling  itself  upon  a 
dusky  floor.  And  in  the  evening  he  watched  the  smoke  going 
up  from  the  tiny  cottages  till  it  was  almost  dark,  and  a  hun- 
dred tiny  lights  were  lit  in  a  hundred  tiny  windows.  Some- 
times on  his  rare  holidays,  and  on  other  days  too,  he  ran  away 
to  the  Wildbrooks  to  watch  the  herons,  or  to  find  in  the  water- 
meadows  the  tallest  kingcups  in  the  whole  world,  and  the 
myriad  treasures  of  the  river — the  giant  comfrey,  purple  and 
white,  meadowsweet,  St.  John's  Wort,  purple  loose-strife,  wil- 
lowherb,  and  the  ninety-nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-nine- 
ty-five  others,  or  whatever  number  else  you  please,  that  go  to 
make  a  myriad.  He  came  to  know  more  about  the  ways  of 
the  Wildbrooks  than  any  other  lad  of  those  parts,  and  one  day 
he  rediscovered  the  Lost  Causeway  that  can  be  traveled  even 
in  the  floods,  when  the  land  lies  under  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills.  He  kept  this,  like  many  other  things,  a  secret;  but  he 
had  one  more  precious  still. 

For  as  he  lay  and  watched  the  play  of  sun  and  shadow  on 


58     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

the  plains,  he  fancied  a  world  of  strange  places  he  had  known, 
somewhere  beyond  the  veils  of  light  and  mist  that  hung  be- 
tween his  vision  and  the  distance,  and  he  fell  into  a  frequent 
dream  of  tunes  and  laughter,  and  sunlit  boughs  in  blossom,  and 
dancing  under  the  boughs;  or  of  fires  burning  in  the  open 
night,  and  a  wilder  singing  and  dancing  in  the  starlight;  and 
often  when  his  body  was  lying  on  the  round  hill,  or  by  the 
smoky  hearth,  his  thoughts  were  running  with  lithe  boys  as 
strong  and  careless  as  he  was,  or  playing  with  lovely  free- 
limbed  girls  with  flowing  hair.  Sometimes  these  people  were 
fair  and  bright-haired  and  in  light  and  lovely  clothing,  and  at 
others  they  were  dark,  with  eyes  of  mischief,  and  clad  in  the 
gayest  rags;  and  sometimes  they  came  to  him  in  a  mingled 
company,  made  one  by  their  careless  hearts. 

One  evening  in  April,  on  the  twelfth  anniversary,  when 
Young  Gerard  came  to  gather  his  flock,  a  lamb  was  missing; 
so  to  escape  a  scolding  he  waited  awhile  on  the  hills  till  Old 
Gerard  should  be  gone  about  his  business.  What  this  was 
Young  Gerard  did  not  know,  he  only  knew  that  each  year  on 
this  night  the  old  shepherd  left  him  to  his  own  devices,  and 
returned  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  Not  therefore 
until  he  judged  that  his  master  must  have  left  the  hut,  did  the 
boy  fold  his  sheep ;  and  this  done  he  ran  out  on  the  hills  again, 
seeking  the  lost  lamb.  For  careless  though  he  was  he  cared 
for  his  sheep,  as  he  did  for  all  things  that  ran  on  legs  or  flew 
on  wings.  So  he  went  swinging  his  lantern  under  the  stars, 
singing  and  whistling  and  smelling  the  spring.  Now  and  then 
he  paused  and  bleated  like  a  ewe;  and  presently  a  small  whim- 
per answered  his  signal. 

"My  lost  lamb  crying  on  the  hills,"  said  Young  Gerard. 
He  called  again,  but  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  other  stopped, 
and  for  a  moment  he  stood  quite  still,  listening  and  perplexed. 

"Where  are  you,  my  lamb?"  said  he. 

"Here,"  said  a  little  frightened  voice  behind  a  bush. 

He  laughed  aloud  and  went  forward,  and  soon  discovered 
a  tiny  girl  cowering  under  a  thorn.  When  she  saw  him  she 
ran  quickly  and  grasped  his  sleeve  and  hid  her  face  in  it  and 
wept.  She  was  small  for  her  years,  which  were  not  more  than 
eight. 

Young  Gerard,  who  was  big  for  his,  picked  her  up  and 
looked  at  her  kindly  and  curiously. 

"What  is  it,  you  little  thing?"  said  he. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     59 

"I  got  lost,"  said  the  child  shyly  through  her  tears. 

"Well,  now  you're  found,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "so  don't 
cry  any  more." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  hungrj^"  sobbed  the  child. 

"Then  come  with  me.    Will  you  ?" 

"Where  to?" 

"To  a  feast  in  a  palace." 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said. 

Young  Gerard  set  her  on  his  shoulder,  and  went  back  the 
way  he  had  come,  till  the  dark  shape  of  his  wretched  shed 
stood  big  between  them  and  the  sky, 

"Is  this  your  palace?"  said  the  child. 

"That's  it,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"I  didn't  know  palaces  had  cracks  in  the  walls,"  said  she. 

"This  one  has,"  explained  Young  Gerard,  "because  it's  so 
old."    And  she  was  satisfied. 

Then  she  asked,  "What  is  that  funny  tree  by  the  door?" 

"It's  a  cherry-tree." 

"My  father's  cherry-trees  have  flowers  on  them,"  said  she. 

"This  one  hasn't,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "because  it's  not  old 
enough." 

"One  day  will  it  be?"  she  asked. 

"One  day,"  he  said.     And  that  contented  her. 

He  then  carried  her  into  the  shed,  and  she  looked  around 
eagerly  to  see  what  a  palace  might  be  like  inside;  and  it  was 
full  of  flickering  lights  and  shadows  and  the  scent  of  burning 
wood,  and  she  did  not  see  how  poor  and  dirty  the  room  was; 
for  the  firelight  gleamed  upon  a  mass  of  golden  fruit  and  silver 
bloom  embroidered  on  the  covering  of  the  settle  by  the  hearth, 
and  sparkled  against  a  silver  and  crystal  lantern  hanging  in 
the  chimney.  And  between  the  cracks  on  the  walls  Young 
Gerard  had  stuck  wands  of  gold  and  silver  palm  and  branches 
of  snowy  blackthorn,  and  on  the  floor  was  a  dish  full  of  celan- 
dine and  daisies,  and  a  broken  jar  of  small  wild  daffodils. 
And  the  child  knew  that  all  these  things  were  the  treasures  of 
queens  and  kings. 

"Why  don't  you  have  that?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  crys- 
tal lantern  as  Young  Gerard  set  down  his  horn  one. 

"Because  I  can't  light  it,"  said  he. 

"Let  me  light  it !"  she  begged ;  so  he  fetched  it  from  its 
nail,  and  thrust  a  pine  twig  in  the  fire  and  gave  her  the  sweet- 
smoking  torch.     But  in  vain  she  tried  to  light  the  wick,  which 


6o    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

always  spluttered  and  went  out  again.  So  seeing  her  disap- 
pointment Young  Gerard  hung  the  lantern  up,  saying,  "Fire- 
light is  prettier."  And  he  set  her  by  the  fire  and  filled  her 
lap  with  cones  and  dry  leaves  and  dead  bracken  to  burn  and 
make  crackle  and  turn  into  fiery  ferns.     And  she  was  pleased. 

Then  he  looked  about  and  found  his  own  wooden  cup,  and 
went  away  and  came  back  with  the  cup  full  of  milk,  set  on  a 
platter  heaped  with  primroses,  and  when  he  brought  it  to  her 
she  looked  at  it  with  shining  eyes  and  asked: 

"Is  this  the  feast?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

And  she  drank  it  eagerly.  And  while  she  drank  Young  Ger- 
ard fetched  a  pipe  and  began  to  whistle  tunes  on  it  as  mad  as 
any  thrush,  and  the  child  began  to  laugh,  and  jumped  up,  spill- 
ing her  leaves  and  primroses,  and  danced  between  the  fitful 
lights  and  shadows  as  though  she  were,  now  a  shadow  taken 
shape,  and  now  a  flame.  Whenever  he  paused  she  cried,  "Oh, 
let  me  dance!  Don't  stop!  Let  me  go  on  dancing!"  until  at 
the  same  moment  she  dropped  panting  on  the  hearth  and  he 
flung  his  pipe  behind  him  and  fell  on  his  back  with  his  heels  in 
the  air,  crying,  "Pouf!  d'you  think  I've  the  four  quarters  of 
heaven  in  my  lungs,  or  what?"  But  as  though  to  prove  he 
had  yet  a  capful  of  wind  under  his  ribs,  he  suddenly  began  to 
sing  a  song  she'd  never  heard  before,  and  it  went  like  this: 

/  looked  before  me  and  behind, 
I  looked  beyond  the  sun  and  ivind. 
Beyond  the  rainboiu  and  the  snoiu, 
And  sanv  a  land  I  used  to  knoiv. 
The  floods  rolled  up  to   keep  me  still 
A   capti've  on  my  heavenly  hill. 
And  on  their  bright  and  dangerous  glass 
Was  ^written,  Boy,  you  shall  not  pass! 
I  laughed  aloud.   You  shining  seas, 
I'll  run  aivay  the  day  I  please! 
I  am  not  winged  like  any  plover 
Yet  I've  a  ivay  shall  take  me  over, 
I  am  not  finned  like  any  bream 
Yet  I  can  cross  you,  lake  and  stream. 
And  I  my  hidden  land  ivill  find 
That  lies  beyond  the  sun   and  ivind — 
Past  drowned  grass  and  drowning  trees 
I'll  run  away  the  day  I  please, 
I'll  run   like  one  whom   nothing  harms 
tVith  my  bonny  in  my  arms. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    6i 

"What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  the  child. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Young  Gerard.  He  kicked 
at  the  dying  log  on  the  hearth,  and  sent  a  fountain  of  sparks 
up  the  chimney.  The  child  threw  a  dry  leaf  and  saw  it  shrivel, 
and  Young  Gerard  stirred  the  white  ash  and  blew  up  the 
embers,  and  held  a  fan  of  bracken  to  them,  till  the  fire  ran 
up  its  veins  like  life  in  the  veins  of  a  man,  and  the  frond  that 
had  already  lived  and  died  became  a  gleaming  spirit,  and  then 
it  too  fell  in  ashes  among  the  ash.  Then  Young  Gerard  took 
a  handful  of  twigs  and  branches,  and  began  to  build  upon  the 
ash  a  castle  of  many  sorts  of  wood,  and  the  child  helped  him, 
laying  hazel  on  his  beech  and  fir  upon  his  oak;  and  often  be- 
fore their  turret  was  quite  reared  a  spark  would  catch  at  the 
dry  fringes  on  the  fir,  or  the  brown  oakleaves,  and  one  twig  or 
another  would  vanish  from  the  castle. 

"How  quickly  wood  burns,"  said  the  child. 

"That's  the  lovely  part  of  it,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "the 
fire  is  always  changing  and  doing  different  things  with  it." 

And  they  v/atched  the  fire  together,  and  smelled  its  smoke, 
that  had  as  many  smells  as  there  were  sorts  of  wood.  Some- 
times it  was  like  roast  coffee,  and  sometimes  like  roast  chest- 
nuts, and  sometimes  like  incense.  And  they  saw  the  lichen  on 
old  stumps  crinkle  into  golden  ferns,  or  fire  run  up  a  dead 
tail  of  creeper  in  a  red  S,  and  vanish  in  mid-air  like  an  Indian 
boy  climbing  a  rope,  or  crawl  right  through  the  middle  of  a 
birch-twig,  making  hieroglyphics  that  glowed  and  faded  between 
the  gray  scales  of  the  bark.  And  then  suddenly  it  caught  the 
whole  scaffolding  of  their  castle,  and  blazed  up  through  the 
fir  and  oak  and  spiny  thorns  and  dead  leaves,  and  the  bits  of 
old  bark  all  over  blue-gray-green  rot,  and  the  young  sprigs 
almost  budding,  and  hissing  with  sap.  And  for  one  moment 
they  saw  all  the  skeleton  and  soul  of  the  castle  without  its 
body,  before  it  fell  in. 

The  child  sighed  a  little  and  yawned  a  little  and  said: 

"How  nice  it  is  to  live  in  a  palace.  Who  lives  here  with 
you?" 

"My  friends,"  said  Young  Gerard,  poking  at  the  log  with  a 
bit  of  stick. 

"What  are  your  friends  like?"  she  asked  him,  rubbing  her 
knuckles  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  silent  for  a  little,  stirring  up  sparks  and  smoke. 
Then  he  answered,  "They  are  gay  in  their  hearts,  and  they're 


62     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

dressed    in    bright   clothes,    and   they   come   with    singing   and 
dancing." 

"Who  else  lives  in  your  palace  with  you?"  she  asked  drows- 

ily. 

"You  do,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

The  child's  head  drooped  against  his  shoulder  and  she  said, 
"My  name's  Dorothea,  but  my  father  calls  me  Thea,  and  he 
is  the  Lord  of  Combe  Ivy."     And  she  fell  fast  asleep. 

For  a  little  while  Young  Gerard  held  and  watched  her 
in  the  firelight,  and  then  he  rose  and  wrapped  her  in  the  old 
embroidered  mantle  on  the  settle,  and  went  out.  And  sure- 
foot  as  a  goat  he  carried  her  over  the  dark  hills  by  the  tracks 
he  knew,  for  roads  there  were  none,  and  his  arms  ached  with 
his  burden,  but  he  would  not  wake  her  till  they  stood  at  her 
father's  gates.  Then  he  shook  her  gently  and  set  her  down, 
and  she  clung  to  him  a  little  dazed,  trying  to  remember. 

"This  is  Combe  Ivy,"  he  whispered.  "You  must  go  in 
alone.    Will  you  come  again?" 

"One  day,"  said  Thea. 

"One  day  there'll  be  flowers  on  my  cherry-tree,"  said  Young 
Gerard.     "Don't  forget." 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  said. 

He  returned  through  the  night  up  hill  and  down  dale,  but 
did  not  go  back  to  the  shed  until  he  had  recovered  his  lamb. 
By  then  it  was  almost  dawn,  and  he  found  his  master  awake 
and  cursing.  He  had  feared  the  boy  had  made  off,  and  he  had 
had  curt  treatment  at  Combe  Ivy,  which  was  in  a  stir  about 
the  loss  of  the  little  daughter.  Young  Gerard  showed  the 
lamb  as  his  excuse,  nevertheless  the  old  shepherd  leathered  the 
young  one  soundly,  as  he  did  six  days  in  seven. 

After  this  when  Young  Gerard  sat  dreaming  on  the  hills,  he 
dreamed  not  only  of  his  happy  land  and  laughing  friends,  but 
of  the  next  coming  of  little  Thea.  But  Combe  Ivy  was  far 
away,  and  the  months  passed  and  the  years,  and  she  did  not 
come  again.  Meanwhile  Young  Gerard  and  his  tree  grew 
apace,  and  the  limbs  of  the  boy  became  longer  and  stronger, 
and  the  branches  of  the  tree  spread  up  to  the  roof  and  even 
began  to  thrust  their  way  through  the  holes  in  the  wall;  but 
the  boy's  life,  save  for  his  dreaming,  was  as  friendless  as  the 
tree's  was  flowerless.  And  of  a  tree's  dreaming  who  shall 
speak?  Meanwhile  Old  Gerard  thrashed  and  rated  him,  and 
reckoned  his  gold  pieces,  and  counted  the  years  that  still  lay  be- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    63 

tween  him  and  his  freedom.    At  last  came  another  April  bring- 
ing its  hour. 

For  as  he  sat  on  the  Mount  in  the  early  morning,  when  he 
was  in  his  seventeenth  year,  Young  Gerard  saw  a  slender  girl 
running  over  the  turf  and  laughing  in  the  sunlight,  sometimes 
stopping  to  watch  a  bird  flying,  or  stooping  to  pluck  one  of  the 
tiny  Down-flowers  at  her  feet.  So  she  came  with  a  dancing 
step  to  the  top  of  the  Mount,  and  then  she  saw  him,  and  her 
glee  left  her  and  shyness  took  its  place.  But  a  little  pride  in 
her  prevented  her  from  turning  away,  and  she  still  came  for- 
ward until  she  stood  beside  him,  and  said: 

"Good  morning.  Shepherd.  Is  it  true  that  in  April  the 
country  north  of  the  hills  is  filled  with  lakes?" 

"Yes,  sometimes.  Mistress  Thea,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

She  looked  at  him  with  surprise  and  said,  "You  must  be  one 
of  my  father's  shepherds,  but  I  do  not  remember  seeing  you 
at  Combe  Ivy." 

"I  was  only  once  near  Combe  Ivy,"  said  Young  Gerard, 
"when  I  took  you  there  five  years  ago  the  night  you  were  lost 
on  these  hills." 

"Oh,  I  remember,"  she  said  with  a  faint  smile.  "How  they 
did  scold  me.     Is  your  cherry-tree  in  flower  yet.  Shepherd?" 

"No,  mistress,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"I  want  to  see  it,"  she  said  suddenly. 

Young  Gerard  left  his  flock  to  the  dog,  and  walked  with 
her  along  the  hillbrow. 

"I  have  run  away,"  she  told  him  as  they  went.  "I  had  to 
get  up  very  early  while  they  were  asleep.  I  shall  be  scolded 
again.  But  travelers  come  who  talk  of  the  lakes,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  them,  and  to  swim  in  them." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Young  Gerard,  hiding  a  smile. 
"It's  dangerous  to  swim  in  the  April  floods.  And  it  would  be 
rather  cold." 

"What  lies  beyond?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  not  able  to  know,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"Some  day  I  mean  to  know,  shepherd." 

"Yes,  mistress,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  free  to." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly  and  reddened  a  little,  it  might 
have  been  from  shame  or  pity.  Young  Gerard  did  not  know 
which.  And  her  shyness  once  more  enveloped  her;  it  always 
came  over  her  unexpectedly,  taking  her  breath  away  like  a 
breaking  wave.    So  she  said  no  more,  and  they  walked  together, 


64    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

she  looking  at  the  ground,  he  at  the  soft  brown  hair  blowing 
over  the  curve  of  her  young  cheek.  She  was  fine  and  delicate 
in  every  line,  and  in  her  color,  and  in  the  touch  of  her  too, 
Young  Gerard  knew.  He  wanted  to  touch  her  cheek  with  his 
finger  as  he  would  have  touched  the  petal  of  a  flower.  Her 
neck,  the  back  of  it  especially,  was  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of 
her,  like  a  primrose  stalk.  He  fell  a  step  behind  so  that  he 
could  look  at  it.  They  did  not  speak  as  they  went.  He  did  not 
want  to,  and  she  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

When  they  reached  the  shed  she  lingered  a  moment  by  the 
tree,  tracing  a  bare  branch  with  her  finger,  and  he  waited,  con- 
tent, till  she  should  speak  or  act,  to  watch  her.  At  last  she 
said  with  her  faint  smile,  "I  am  very  thirsty."  Then  he  went 
into  the  shed  and  came  out  with  his  wooden  cup  filled  with 
milk.  She  drank  and  said,  "Thank  you,  shepherd.  How 
pretty  the  violets  are  in  your  copse." 

"Would  you  like  some?"  he  asked. 

"Not  now,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  another  day.  I  must  go 
now."  She  gave  him  back  his  cup  and  went  away,  slowly  at 
first,  but  when  she  was  at  some  distance  he  saw  her  begin  to 
run  like  a  fawn. 

She  did  not  come  again  that  spring.  And  so  the  stark  Fives 
of  the  boy  and  the  tree  went  forward  for  another  year.  But 
one  evening  in  the  following  April,  when  the  green  was  quiver- 
ing on  wood  and  hedgerow,  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  shed 
and  saw  her  bending  like  a  flower  at  the  edge  of  the  copse,  fill- 
ing her  little  basket  and  singing  to  herself.  She  looked  up  soon 
and  said: 

"Good  evening,  shepherd.     How  does  your  cherry-tree?" 

"As  usual.  Mistress  Thea." 

"So  I  see.  What  a  lazy  tree  it  is.  Have  you  some  milk  for 
me?" 

He  brought  her  his  cup  and  she  drank  of  it  for  the  third 
time,  and  left  him  before  he  had  had  time  to  realize  that  she 
had  come  and  gone,  but  only  how  greatly  her  delicate  beauty 
had  increased  in  the  last  year. 

However,  before  the  summer  was  over  she  came  again — to 
swim  in  the  river,  she  told  him,  as  she  passed  him  on  the  hills, 
without  lingering.  And  in  the  autumn  she  came  to  gather 
blackberries,  and  he  showed  her  the  best  place  to  find  them. 
Any  of  these  things  she  might  have  done  as  easily  nearer  Combe 
Ivy,  but  it  seemed  she  must  always  offer  him  some  reason  for 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    65 

her  small  truancies — whether  to  gather  berries  or  flowers,  or 
to  swim  in  the  river.  He  knew  that  her  chief  delight  lay  in 
escaping  from  her  father's  manor. 

Winter  closed  her  visits;  bat  Young  Gerard  was  as  patient 
as  the  earth,  and  did  not  begin  to  look  for  her  till  April.  As 
surely  as  it  brought  leaves  to  the  trees  and  flowers  to  the 
grass,  It  would,  he  knew,  bring  his  little  mistress's  question, 
half  shy,  half  smiling,  "Is  your  cherry-tree  in  blossom,  shep- 
herd?"    And  later  her  request,  smiling  and  shy,  for  milk. 

They  seldom  exchanged  more  than  a  few  words  at  any  time. 
Sometimes  they  did  not  speak  at  all.  For  he,  who  was  her 
father's  servant,  never  spoke  first;  and  she,  growing  in  years 
and  loveliness,  grew  also  in  timidity,  so  that  it  seemed  to  cost 
her  more  and  more  to  address  her  greeting  or  her  question  even 
to  her  father's  servant.  The  sweet  quick  reddening  of  her 
cheek  was  one  of  Young  Gerard's  chief  remembrances  of  her. 

But  after  a  while,  when  they  met  by  those  shy  chances  which 
she  could  control  and  he  could  not;  and  when  she  did  not 
speak,  but  glanced  and  hesitated  and  passed  on ;  or  glanced  and 
passed  without  hesitation ;  or  passed  without  a  glance ;  he  came 
to  know  that  she  would  not  mind  if  he  arose  and  walked  with 
her,  if  he  could  control  the  pretext,  which  she  could  not.  And 
he  did  so  quietly,  having  alwaj's  something  to  show  her. 

He  showed  her  his  most  secret  nests  and  his  greatest  treas- 
ures of  flowers,  his  because  he  loved  them  so  much.  He  would 
have  been  jealous  of  showing  these  things  to  any  one  but  her. 
In  a  great  water-meadow  in  the  valley,  he  had  once  shown  her 
kingcups  making  sheets  of  gold,  enameled  with  every  green 
grass  ever  seen  in  spring — thousands  of  kingcups  and  a  myriad 
of  milkmaids  in  between,  dancing  attendance  in  all  their  faint 
shades  of  silver-white  and  rosy-mauve.  When  a  breeze  blew, 
this  world  of  milkmaids  swayed  and  curtsied  above  the  kings' 
daughters  in  their  glory.  Then  Gerard  and  Thea  looked  aV 
each  other  smiling,  because  the  same  delight  was  in  each,  and 
soon  she  looked  away  again  at  the  gentle  maids  and  the  royal 
ladies,  but  he  looked  still  at  her,  who  was  both  to  him. 

In  silence  he  showed  her  what  he  loved. 

Rut  you  must  not  suppose  that  she  came  frequently  to  those 
hills.  She  was  to  be  seen  no  more  often  than  you  will  see  a 
kingfisher  when  you  watch  for  it  under  a  willow.  Yet  be- 
cause in  the  season  of  kingfishers  you  know  you  may  see  one 
flash  at  any  instant,  so  to  Young  Gerard  each  day  of  spring 


66    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

and  summer  was  an  expectancy;  and  this  it  was  that  kept  his 
life  alight.  This  and  his  young  troop  of  friends  in  a  land  of 
fruit  in  blossom  and  a  sky  in  stars.  For  men,  dear  maids,  live 
by  the  daily  bread  of  their  dreams;  on  realizations  they  would 
starve. 

At  last  came  the  winter  that  preceded  Young  Gerard's 
twenty-first  year.  With  the  stripping  of  the  boughs  he  stripped 
his  heart  of  all  thoughts  of  seeing  her  again  till  the  green  of 
the  coming  year.  The  snows  came,  and  he  tended  his  sheep, 
and  counted  his  memories;  and  Old  Gerard  tended  his  sheep 
and  counted  his  coins.  The  count  was  full  now,  and  he  dreamed 
of  April  and  the  freeing  of  his  body.  Young  Gerard  also 
dreamed  of  April,  and  the  freeing  of  his  heart.  And  under 
the  ice  that  bound  the  flooded  meadows  doubtless  the  earth 
dreamed  of  the  freeing  of  her  waters  and  the  blooming  of  the 
land.  The  snows  and  the  frosts  lasted  late  that  year  as  though 
the  winter  would  never  be  done,  and  to  the  two  Gerards  the 
days  crawled  like  snails ;  but  in  time  March  blew  himself  off 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  April  dawned,  and  the  swollen  river 
went  rushing  to  the  sea  above  the  banks  it  had  drow^ned  with 
its  wild  overflow.  And  as  Old  Gerard  began  to  mark  the 
days  off  on  a  tally.  Young  Gerard  began  to  listen  on  the  hills. 
When  the  day  came  whose  midnight  was  to  make  the  old  man 
a  freedman,  Thea  had  not  appeared. 

On  the  morning  of  this  day,  as  the  two  shepherds  stood  out- 
side their  shed  before  they  separated  with  their  flocks,  their 
ears  were  accosted  with  shoutings  and  halloos  on  the  other  side 
of  the  copse,  and  soon  they  saw  coming  through  the  trees  a 
man  in  gay  attire.  He  had  a  scalloped  jerkin  of  orange  leather, 
and  his  shoes  and  cap  were  of  the  same,  but  his  sleeves  and 
hose  and  feather  were  of  a  vivid  green,  like  nothing  in  nature. 
He  looked  garish  in  the  sun.  Seeing  the  shepherds  he  took  off 
his  cap,  and  solemnly  thanked  heaven  for  having  after  all 
created  something  besides  hills  and  valleys.  "For,"  said  he, 
"after  being  lost  among  them  I  know  not  how  many  hours, 
with  no  other  company  than  my  own  shadow,  I  had  begun  to 
doubt  whether  I  was  not  the  only  man  on  earth,  and  my  name 
Adam.    A  curse  on  all  lords  who  do  not  live  by  highroads!" 

"Where  are  you  bound  for,  master?"  asked  Old  Gerard. 

"Combe  Ivy,"  said  the  stranger,  "and  the  wedding." 

Old  Gerard  nodded,  as  one  little  surprised ;  but  to  Young 
Gerard  this  mention  of  a  wedding  at  Combe  Ivy  came  as  news. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    67 

It  did  not  stir  him  much,  however,  for  he  was  not  curious  about 
the  doings  of  the  master  and  the  house  he  never  saw ;  all  that 
concerned  him  was  that  to-day,  at  least,  he  must  cease  to  listen 
on  the  hills,  since  his  young  mistress  would  be  at  the  wedding 
with  the  others. 

Old  Gerard  said  to  the  stranger,  "Keep  the  straight  track 
to  the  south  till  you  come  under  Wepham,  then  follow  the 
valley  to  the  east,  and  so  you'll  be  in  time  for  the  feasting, 
master." 

"That's  certain,"  said  the  stranger,  "for  the  Lord  of  Combe 
Ivy  and  the  Rough  Master  of  Coates  have  had  no  peers  at 
junketing  since  Gay  Street  lost  its  Lord ;  and  the  feast  is  like 
to  go  on  till  midnight." 

With  that  he  went  on  his  way,  and  Old  Gerard  followed 
him  with  his  eyes,  muttering, 

"Would  I  also  were  there!  But  for  you,"  he  said,  turning 
on  the  young  man  with  a  sudden  snarl,  "I  should  be!  Had  ye 
not  come  a  day  too  late,  I'd  be  a  freedman  to-night  instead  of 
to-morrow,  and  junketing  at  the  wedding  with  the  rest." 

Young  Gerard  did  not  understand  him.  He  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  questioning  the  old  man,  and  if  he  had  would  not  have 
expected  answers.  But  certain  words  of  the  stranger  had 
pricked  his  attention,  and  now  he  said: 

"Where  is  Gay  Street?" 

"Far  away  over  the  Stor  and  the  Chill,"  growled  Old 
Gerard. 

"It's  a  jolly  name." 

"Maybe.  But  they  say  it's  a  sorry  place  now  that  it  lacks 
its  Lord." 

"What  became  of  him?" 

"How  should  I  know?  What  can  a  man  know  who  lives  all 
his  life  on  a  hill  with  pewits  for  gossips?" 

"You  know  more  than  I,"  said  Young  Gerard  indolently. 
"You  know  there's  a  wedding  down  yonder.  Who's  the  Rough 
Master  of  Coates?" 

"The  bridegroom,  young  know-nothing.  You've  a  tongue 
in  your  head  to-day." 

"Why  do  they  call  him  the  Rough  Master?" 

"Because  that's  what  he  is,  and  so  are  his  people,  as  rough 
as  furze  on  a  common,  they  say.  Have  you  any  more  ques- 
tions?" 

"Yes,"  said  Young  Gerard.    "Who  is  the  bride?" 


68    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Who  should  the  bride  be?     Combe  Ivy's  mother?" 

"She's  dead,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"His  daughter  then,"  scoffed  Old  Gerard. 

Young  Gerard  stared  at  him. 

"Get  about  your  business,"  shouted  the  old  shepherd  with 
sudden  wrath.  "Why  do  ye  stare  so?  You're  not  drunk. 
Ah !  down  yonder  they'll  be  getting  drunk  without  me.  Enough 
of  your  idling  and  staring!" 

He  raised  his  staff,  but  Young  Gerard  thrust  it  aside  so  vio- 
lently that  he  staggered,  and  the  boy  went  away  to  his  sheep 
and  they  met  no  more  till  evening.  The  whole  of  that  day 
Young  Gerard  sat  on  the  Mount,  not  looking  as  usual  to  the 
busy  north  dreaming  of  the  unknown  land  beyond  the  water, 
but  over  the  silent  slopes  and  valleys  of  the  south,  whose  peo- 
ples were  only  birds  and  foxes  and  rabbits,  and  whose  only 
cities  were  built  of  lights  and  shadows.  Somewhere  beyond 
them  was  Combe  Ivy,  and  little  Thea  getting  married  to  the 
Rough  Master  of  Coates,  in  the  midst  of  feasting  and  singing 
and  dancing.  He  thought  of  her  dancing  over  the  Downs  for 
joy  of  being  free,  he  thought  of  her  singing  to  herself  as  she 
gathered  flowers  in  his  copse,  and  he  thought  of  her  feasting  on 
wild  berries  he  had  helped  her  to  find — that  also  was  a  feasting 
and  singing  and  dancing.  All  day  long  his  thoughts  ran,  "She 
will  not  come  any  more  in  the  mornings  to  bathe  in  the  river 
over  the  hill.  She  will  not  come  with  her  little  basket  to 
gather  flowers  and  berries.  She  will  not  stop  and  ask  for  a 
cup  of  milk,  or  say.  Let  me  see  the  young  lambs,  or  say,  Is 
your  cherry-tree  in  flower  yet,  shepherd?  She  will  not  ask  me 
with  her  eyes  to  come  with  her — oh,  she  will  not  ask  me  by 
turning  her  eyes  away,  with  her  little  head  bent.  You!  you 
Rough  Master  of  Coates,  what  are  you  like,  what  are  you 
like?" 

In  the  evening  when  he  gathered  his  sheep,  one  was  missing. 
He  had  to  take  the  flock  back  without  it.  Old  Gerard  was 
furious  with  him;  it  seemed  as  though  on  this  last  night  that 
separated  him  from  the  long  fulfillment  of  his  hopes  he  must 
be  more  furious  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  He  was  furious 
at  being  thwarted  of  the  fun  in  the  valley,  furious  at  the  loss 
of  the  lamb,  most  furious  at  young  Gerard's  indifference  to 
his  fury.  He  told  the  boy  he  must  search  on  the  hills,  and 
Young  Gerard  only  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  shed  and  looked 
to  the  south  and  made  no  aaswer.     So  he  went  himself,  leaving 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    69 

the  boy  to  prepare  the  mess  for  supper ;  for  he  feared  that  if  he 
went  to  Combe  Ivy  that  night  with  a  bad  tale  to  tell,  his  master 
for  a  whim  might  say  that  a  young  sheep  was  a  fair  deal  for 
an  old  shepherd,  and  take  his  gold,  and  keep  him  a  bondman 
still.  For  the  Lord  of  Combe  Ivy  lived  by  his  whimsies.  But 
Old  Gerard  could  not  find  the  lost  sheep,  and  when  he  came 
back  the  boy  was  where  he  had  left  him,  looking  over  the  dark- 
ening hills. 

"Is  the  mess  ready?"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"No,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  forgot." 

Old  Gerard  slashed  at  him  with  a  rope  he  had  taken  in  case 
of  need.     "That  will  make  you  remember." 

"No,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"Why  not?" 

Young  Gerard  said,  "You  beat  me  too  often,  I  cannot  re- 
member all  the  reasons." 

"Then,"  said  Old  Gerard  full  of  wrath,  "I  will  beat  you 
out  of  all  reason." 

And  he  began  to  thrash  Young  Gerard  with  all  his  might, 
talking  between  the  blows.  "Haven't  you  been  the  curse  of 
my  life  for  twenty-one  years?"  snarled  he.  "Can  I  trust  you? 
Can  I  leave  you?  Would  the  sheep  get  their  straw?  Would 
the  lambs  be  brought  alive  into  the  world?  Bah!  for  all  you 
care  the  sheep  would  go  cold  and  their  young  would  die.  And 
down  yonder  they  are  getting  drunk  without  me!" 

"Old  shepherd,"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 

The  angry  man,  panting  with  his  rage  and  the  exertion  of 
his  blows,  paused  and  turned.  Near  the  corner  of  the  shed  he 
saw  a  woman  in  a  duffle  cloak  standing,  or  rather  stooping,  on 
her  crutch.  She  was  so  ancient  that  it  seemed  as  though  Death 
himself  must  have  forgotten  her,  but  her  eyes  in  their  wrinkled 
sockets  were  as  piercing  as  thorns.  Old  Gerard,  staring  at 
them,  felt  as  though  his  own  eyes  were  pricked. 

"Where  have  I  seen  you  before,  hag?"  he  said. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  me  before?"  asked  the  old  woman. 

"I  thought  so,  I  thought  so" — he  fumbled  with  his  memory. 

"Then  it  must  have  been  when  we  went  courting  in  April, 
nine-and-ninety  years  ago,"  said  the  old  woman  dryly,  "but  you 
lads  remember  me  better  than  I  do  you.  Can  I  sleep  by  your 
hearth  to-night?" 


70    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Where  are  you  going  to?"  asked  Old  Gerard,  half  grin- 
ning, half  sour. 

"Where  I'll  be  welcome,"  said  she. 

"You're  not  welcome  here.    But  there's  nothing  to  steal,  you 
may  sleep  by  the  hearth." 

"Thank  you,  shepherd,"  said  the  crone,  "for  your  courtesy. 
Why  were  you  beating  the  boy?" 

"Because  he's  one  that  won't  work." 

"Is  he  your  slave?" 

"He's  my  master's  slave.    But  he's  idle." 

"I  am  not  idle,"  said  Young  Gerard.  "The  year  round 
I'm  busy  long  before  dawn  and  long  after  dark." 

"Then  why  are  you  idle  to-day,"  sneered  Old  Gerard,  "of 
all  the  days  in  the  year?" 

"I've  something  else  to  think  of,"  said  the  boy. 

"You  see,"  said  the  old  man  to  the  crone. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "a  boy  cannot  always  be  working.  A 
boy  will  sometimes  be  dreaming.  Life  isn't  all  labor,  shep- 
herd." 

"What  else  is  it?"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"Joy." 

^|Ho,  ho,  ho!"  went  Old  Gerard. 

"And  power." 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!" 

"And  triumph." 

"Not  for  serfs,"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"For  serfs  and  lords,"  she  said. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!" 

"You  were  young  once,"  said  the  crone. 

Old  Gerard  said,  "What  if  I  was?" 

"Good  night,"  said  the  crone;  and  she  went  into  the  shed. 

The  shepherd  looked  after  her,  the  old  one  stupidly,  the 
young  one  with  lighted  eyes. 

"Will  you  get  supper?"  growled  Old  Gerard. 

"No,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "I  won't.  I  want  no  supper. 
Put  down  that  rope.  I  am  taller  and  stronger  than  you,  and 
why  I've  let  you  go  on  beating  me  so  long  I  don't  know,  unless 
it  is  that  you  began  to  beat  me  when  you  were  taller  and 
stronger  than  I.    If  you  want  any  supper,  get  it  yourself." 

Old  Gerard  turned  red  and  purple.  "The  boy's  mad!"  he 
gasped.  "Do  you  know  what  happens  to  servants  who  defy 
their  masters?" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    71 

"Yes,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "then  they're  lords."  And  he 
too  went  into  the  shed. 

"Try  that  on  Combe  Ivy!"  bawled  Old  Gerard,  "and  see 
what  you'll  get  for  it.  I  thank  fortune  I'll  be  quit  of  you  to- 
morrow—  What's  that  to-do  in  the  valley  ?"  he  muttered,  and 
stared  down  the  hill. 

Away  in  the  hollows  and  shadows  he  saw  splashes  of  moving 
light,  and  heard  far-oit  snatches  of  song  and  laughter,  but 
the  movements  and  sounds  were  still  so  distant  that  they 
seemed  to  be  only  those  of  ghosts  and  echoes.  Nearer 
they  came  and  nearer,  and  now  in  the  night  he  could 
discern  a  great  rabble  stumbling  among  the  dips  and  rises  of 
the  hills. 

"They're  heading  this  way,"  said  Old  Gerard.  "Why,  'tis 
the  wedding-party,"  he  said  amazed,  "if  it's  not  witchcraft. 
But  why  are  they  coming  here?" 

"Hola!  hola!  hola!"  shouted  a  tipsy  voice  hard  by. 

"Here's  dribblings  from  the  wineskin,"  said  Old  Gerard; 
and  up  the  track  struggled  a  drunken  man,  waving  a  torch 
above  his  head.  It  was  the  guest  whom  he  had  directed  in  the 
morning. 

"Hola!"  he  shouted  again  on  seeing  Old  Gerard. 

"Well,  racketer?"  said  the  shepherd,  with  a  chuckle. 

"Shall  a  man  not  racket  at  another  man's  wedding?"  he 
cried.     "Let  some  one  be  jolly,  say  1 1" 

"The  bridegroom,"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  other,  "the  bridegroom!  He  was 
first  in  high  feather  and  last  in  the  sulks." 

"The  bride,  then." 

"Ha,  ha!  ha,  ha!  during  the  toasts  he  tried  to  kiss  her." 

"Wouldn't  she?" 

"She  wouldn't." 

"Hark!"  said  Old  Gerard,  "here  they  come."  The  sound 
of  rollicking  increased  as  the  rout  drew  nearer. 

"He's  taking  her  home  across  the  river,"  said  the  guest.  "I 
wouldn't  be  she.  There  she  sat,  her  pretty  face  fixed  and 
frozen,  but  a  fright  in  her  that  shook  her  whole  body.  You 
could  see  it  shake.  And  we  drank,  how  we  drank!  to  the 
bride  and  the  groom  and  their  daughters  and  sons,  to  the  sire 
and  the  priest,  and  the  ring  and  the  bed,  to  the  kiss  and  the 
quarrel,  to  love  which  is  one  thing  and  marriage  which  is  an- 
other— Lord,  how  we  drank!    But  she  drank  nothing.    And  for 


72    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

all  her  terror  the  Rough  could  do  no  more  with  her  than  with 
a  stone.  Something  in  her  turned  him  cold  every  time.  Sud- 
denly up  he  gets.  'We'll  have  no  more  of  this,'  he  says,  'we'll 
go.'  Combe  Ivy  would  have  had  them  stay,  but  'She's  where 
she's  used  to  lord  it^here,'  says  the  Rough,  'I'll  take  her  where  / 
lord  it,  and  teach  her  who's  master.'  And  he  pushes  down  his 
chair  and  takes  her  hand  and  pulls  her  away ;  and  out  we  tum- 
ble after  him.  Combe  Ivy  cries  to  him  to  wait  for  the  horses, 
but  no,  'We'll  foot  it,'  says  he,  'up  hill  and  down  dale  as  the 
crow  flies,  and  if  she  hates  me  now  without  a  cause  I  swear 
she'll  love  me  with  one  at  the  end  of  the  dance.'  We're  danc- 
ing them  as  far  as  the  Wildbrooks;  on  t'other  side  they  may 
dance  for  themselves.  Here  they  come  dancing — dance,  you!" 
cried  the  guest,  and  whirled  his  torch  like  a  madman.  And  as 
he  whirled  and  staggered,  up  the  hill  came  the  wedding-party 
as  tipsy  as  he  was:  a  motley  procession,  waving  torches  and 
garlands,  winecups,  flagons,  colored  napkins,  shouting  and  sing- 
ing and  beating  on  trenchers  and  salvers — on  anything  that 
they  could  snatch  from  the  table  as  they  quitted  it.  They  came 
in  all  their  bravery — in  doublets  of  flame-colored  silk  and  blue, 
in  scarlet  leather  and  green  velvet,  in  purple  slashed  with  silver 
and  crimson  fringed  with  bronze ;  but  their  vests  were  unlaced, 
their  hose  sagged,  and  silk  and  velvet  and  leather  were  stained 
bright  or  dark  with  wine.  Some  had  stuck  leaves  and  flowers 
in  their  hair,  others  had  tied  their  forelocks  with  ribbons  like 
horses  on  a  holiday,  and  one  had  torn  his  yellow  mantle  in  two 
and  capered  in  advance,  waving  the  halves  in  either  hand  like 
monstrous  banners,  or  the  flapping  wings  of  some  golden  bird 
of  prey.  In  the  midst  of  them,  pressing  forward  and  pressed 
on  by  the  riot  behind,  was  the  Rough  Master  of  Coates,  and 
with  him,  always  hanging  a  little  away  and  shrinking  under 
her  veil,  Thea,  whose  right  wrist  he  grasped  in  his  left  hand. 
Breathless  she  was  among  the  breathless  rabble,  who,  gaining 
the  hilltop  seized  each  other  suddenly  and  broke  into  antics, 
shaking  their  napkins  and  rattling  on  their  plates.  ^  Their 
voices  were  hoarse  with  laughter  and  drink,  and  their  faces 
flushed  with  it;  only  among  those  red  and  swollen  faces,  the 
bridegroom's,  in  the  flare  of  the  torches,  looked  as  black  as  the 
bride's  looked  white.  The  night  about  the  newly-wedded  pair 
was  one  great  din  and  flutter. 

Then  in  a  trice  the  dancers  all  lost  breath,  and  the  dance 
parted  as  they  staggered  aside;  and  at  the  door  of  the  shed 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    73 

Young  Gerard  stood,  and  gazed  through  the  broken  revel  ac 
little  Thea,  and  she  stood  gazing  at  him.  And  behind  and 
above  him,  along  the  walls  of  the  hut,  and  over  the  doorway, 
and  making  lovely  the  very  roof,  she  saw  a  cloud  of  snowwhite 
blossom. 

Somebody  cried,  "Here's  a  boy.  He  shall  dance  too.  Boy, 
is  there  drink  within  ?" 

The  others  took  up  the  clamor.  "Drink!  bring  us  some- 
thing to  drink!" 

"The  red  grape!"  cried  one. 

"The  yellow  grape!"  cried  another. 

"The  sap  of  the  apple!" 

"The  juice  of  the  pear!" 

"Nut-brown  ale!" 

"The  spirit  that  burns!" 

"Bring  us  drink!"  they  cried  in  a  breath. 

"Will  you  have  milk?"  said  Young  Gerard. 

At  this  the  company  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  They 
laughed  till  they  rocked.  But  when  they  were  silent  little 
Thea  spoke.     She  said  in  a  faint  clear  voice: 

"I  would  like  a  cup  of  milk." 

Young  Gerard  went  into  the  hut  and  came  out  with  his 
wooden  cup  filled  with  milk,  and  brought  it  to  her,  and  she 
drank.  None  spoke  or  moved  while  she  drank,  but  when  she 
gave  him  the  cup  again  one  of  the  crew  said  chuckling,  "Now 
she  has  drunk,  now  she's  merrier.  Try  her  again,  Rough,  try 
her  on  milk!" 

Again  the  night  reeled  with  their  laughter.  They  sur- 
rounded the  wedded  pair  crying,  "Kiss  her!  kiss  her!  kiss  her!" 
Then  the  Rough  Master  of  Coates  pulled  her  round  to  him, 
dark  with  anger,  and  tried  to  kiss  her.  But  she  turned  sharply 
in  his  arms,  bending  her  head  away.  And  despite  his  force,  and 
though  he  was  a  man  and  she  little  more  than  a  child,  he  could 
not  make  her  mouth  meet  his.  And  the  laughter  of  the  guests 
rose  higher,  and  infuriated  him. 

Then  he  who  had  spoken  before  said,  "By  Hymen,  the  bride 
should  kiss  something.  If  the  lord's  not  good  enough,  let  her 
kiss  the  churl!"  At  this  the  revelers,  wild  with  delight,  beat 
on  their  trenchers  and  shouted,  "Ay,  let  her!" 

And  suddenly  they  surged  in,  parting  Thea  from  the  Rough; 
while  some  pulled  him  back  others  dragged  Young  Gerard 
forward,  till  he  stood  where  the  bridegroom  had  stood;  and 


74    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

in  that  seething  throng  of  mockery  he  felt  her  clinging  help- 
lessly to  him,  and  his  arm  went  round  her. 

"Kiss  him!  kiss  him!  kiss  him!"  cried  the  guests. 

She  looked  up  pitifully  at  him,  and  he  bent  his  head.  And 
she  heard  him  whisper: 

"My  cherry-tree's  in  flower." 

She  whispered,  "Yes." 

And  they  kissed  each  other. 

Then  the  tumult  of  laughter  passed  all  bounds,  so  that  it 
was  a  wonder  if  it  was  not  heard  at  Combe  Ivy;  and  the  guests 
clashed  their  trenchers  one  against  another,  and  whirled  their 
torches  till  the  sparks  flew,  yelling,  "The  bride's  kiss!  Ha,  ha! 
the  bride's  kiss!" 

But  the  Rough  Master  of  Coates  had  had  enough;  snarling 
like  a  mad  dog  he  thrust  his  way  through  the  crowd  on  one 
side,  as  Old  Gerard,  seeing  his  purpose,  thrust  through  on  the 
other,  and  both  at  the  same  instant  fell  on  the  boy,  the  one 
with  his  scabbard,  the  other  with  his  staff. 

"Kisses,  will  ye?"  cried  the  Rough  Master  of  Coates,  "here's 
kisses  for  ye!" 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  the  guests,  "more  kisses,  more  kisses  for 
him  that  kissed  the  bride!" 

And  then  they  all  struck  him  at  once,  kicking  and  beating 
him  without  mercy,  till  he  lay  prone  on  the  earth.  When  he 
had  fallen,  the  Rough  shouted,  "Away  to  the  Wildbrooks, 
away!" 

And  he  seized  Thea  in  his  arms,  and  rushed  along  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  and  all  the  company  followed  in  a  confusion,  and 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  night. 

But  Young  Gerard  raised  himself  a  little,  and  groaned,  "The 
Wildbrooks — are  they  going  to  the  Wildbrooks?" 

"Ay,  and  over  the  Wildbrooks,"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"But  they're  in  flood,"  gasped  Young  Gerard.  "They'll 
never  crossoit  in  the  spring  floods." 

"They'll  manage  it  somehow.  The  Rough — did  you  see  his 
eyes  when  you — ;?  ho,  ho!  he'll  cross  it  somehow." 

"He  can't,"  the  boy  muttered.  "The  April  tide's  too  strong. 
He  will  drown  in  the  flood." 

"And  she,"  said  Old  Gerard. 

"Perhaps  she  will  swim  on  the  flood,"  said  Young  Gerard 
faintly.     And  he  sighed  and  sank  back  on  the  earth. 

"Ay,  you'll  be  sore,"  chuckled  the  old  man.    "You  had  your 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     75 

salve  before  you  had  your  drubbing.  Lie  there.  I  must  be 
gone  on  business." 

He  took  up  his  staff  and  went  down  the  hill  for  the  last 
time  to  Combe  Ivy,  to  purchase  his  freedom. 

But  Young  Gerard  lay  with  his  face  pressed  to  the  turf. 
"And  that  was  the  bridegroom,"  he  said,  and  shook  where  he 

lay. 

"Young  shepherd,"  said  a  voice  beside  him.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  the  hooded  crone,  come  out  of  the  hut.  "Why  do  you 
water  the  earth?"  said  she.  "Have  not  the  rains  done  their 
work?" 

"What  work,  dame?" 

"You've  as  fine  a  cherry  in  flower,"  said  she,  "as  ever  blos- 
somed in  Gay  Street  in  the  season  of  singing  and  dancing." 

"Singing  and  dancing!"  he  cried,  his  voice  choking,  and  he 
sprang  up  despite  his  pains.  "Don't  speak  to  me,  dame,  of 
singing  and  dancing.  You're  old,  like  the  withered  branch  of 
a  tree,  but  did  you  not  see  with  your  old  eyes,  and  hear  with 
your  old  ears?  Did  you  not  see  her  come  up  the  green  hillside 
with  singing  and  dancing?  Oh,  yes,  my  cherry's  in  flower, 
like  a  crown  for  a  bride,  and  the  spring  is  all  in  movement, 
and  the  birds  are  all  in  song,  and  she — she  came  up  the  hill- 
side with  singing  and  dancing." 

"I  saw,"  said  the  crone,  "and  I  heard.  I'm  not  so  old,  young 
shepherd,  that  I  do  not  remember  the  curse  of  youth." 

"What's  that?"  he  said  moodily. 

"To  bear  the  soul  of  a  master  in  the  body  of  a  slave,"  said 
she ;  "to  be  a  flower  in  a  sealed  bud,  the  moon  in  a  cloud,  water 
locked  in  ice.  Spring  in  the  womb  of  the  year,  love  that  does 
not  know  itself." 

"But  when  it  does  know?"  said  Young  Gerard  slowly. 

"Oh,  when  it  knows!"  said  she.  "Then  the  flower  of  the 
fruit  will  leap  through  the  bud,  and  the  moon  will  leap  like  a 
lamb  on  the  hills  of  the  sky,  and  April  will  leap  in  the  veins 
of  the  year,  and  the  river  will  leap  with  the  fury  of  Spring, 
and  the  headlong  heart  will  cry  in  the  body  of  youth,  I  will  not 
be  a  slave,  but  I  will  be  the  lord  of  life,  because — " 

"Because?"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"Because  I  will!" 

Young  Gerard  said  nothing,  and  they  sat  together  in  a  long 
silence  in  the  darkness,  and  time  went  by  filling  the  sky  with 
stars. 


76    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Now  as  they  sat  the  hilltop  once  more  began  to  waver  with 
shadows  and  voices,  but  this  time  the  shadows  came  on  heavy 
feet  and  weary,  and  the  voices  were  forlorn.  One  feebly  cried, 
"Hola!"  And  round  the  belt  of  trees  straggled  the  rout  that 
had  left  them  an  hour  or  so  earlier.  But  now  they  were  sod- 
den and  dejected,  draggled  and  woebegone,  as  sorry  a  spectacle 
as  so  many  drowned  rats. 

"Fire!"  moaned  one.    'Tire!  fire!" 

"Who's  burning?"  said  Young  Gerard,  and  got  quickly  on 
his  feet;  but  he  did  not  see  the  two  he  looked  for. 

"None's  burning,  fool,  but  many  are  drowning.  Do  we  not 
look  like  drowned  men?  How  shall  we  ever  get  back  to  Combe 
Ivy,  and  warmth  and  drink  and  comforts?  Would  we  were 
burning!" 

"What  has  happened?"   the  boy  demanded. 

"We  went  in  search  of  the  ferry,"  he  said,  "but  the  ferry 
Mas  drowned  too." 

"We  couldn't  find  the  ferry,"  said  a  second. 

"No,"  mumbled  a  third,  "the  river  had  drunk  it  up.  Where 
there  were  paths  there  are  brooks,  and  where  there  were 
meadows,  lakes." 

The  miserable  crew  broke  out  into  plaints  and  questions — 
"Have  you  no  fire?  have  you  no  food?  no  coverings?" 

"None,"  said  Young  Gerard.    "Where  is  the  bride?" 

"Have  you  no  drink?" 

"Where  is  the  bride?" 

"The  groom  stumbled,"  said  one.  "Let  us  to  Combe  Ivy, 
in  comfort's  name.    There'll  be  drink  there." 

He  staggered  down  the  hill,  and  his  fellows  made  after 
him.  But  Young  Gerard  sprang  upon  one,  and  gripped  him 
by  the  shoulder  and  shook  him,  and  for  the  third  time 
cried : 

"Where  is  the  bride?" 

"In  the  water,"  he  answered  heavily,  "because — there  was 
— no  wine." 

Then  he  dragged  himself  out  of  the  boy's  grasp,  and  fell 
down  the  hill  after  his  companions. 

Young  Gerard  stood  for  one  instant  listening  and  holding 
his  breath.  Suddenly  he  said,  "My  lost  lamb,  crying  on  the 
hills."  He  ran  into  the  shed  and  looked  about,  and  snatched 
from  the  settle  the  green  and  cherry  cloak,  and  from  the  wall 
the  crystal  and  silver  lantern.     He  struck  a  spark  from  a  flint 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     77 

and  lit  the  wick.  It  burned  brightly  and  steadily.  Then  he  ran 
out  of  the  shed.    The  old  woman  rose  up  in  his  path. 

"That's  a  good  light,"  said  she,  "and  a  warm  cloak." 

"Don't  stop  me!"  said  Young  Gerard,  and  ran  on.  She 
nodded,  and  as  he  vanished  in  one  direction,  she  vanished  in  the 
other. 

He  had  not  run  far  when  he  saw  one  more  shadow  on  the 
hills;  and  it  came  with  faltering  steps,  and  a  trembling  sob- 
bing breath,  and  he  held  up  his  lantern  and  the  light  fell  on 
Thea,  shivering  in  her  wet  veil.  As  the  flame  struck  her  eyes 
she  sighed,  "Oh,  I  can't  see  the  way — I  can't  see!" 

Young  Gerard  hurried  to  her  and  said,  "Come  this  way," 
and  he  took  her  hand ;  but  she  snatched  it  quickly  from  him. 

"Go,  man!"  she  said.     "Don't  touch  me.     Go!" 

"Don't  be  frightened  of  me,"  said  Young  Gerard  gently. 

Then  she  looked  at  him  and  whispered,  "Oh — it  is  you — 
shepherd.     I  was  trying  to  find  )'ou.     I'm  cold." 

Young  Gerard  wrapped  the  cloak  about  her,  and  said,  "Come 
with  me.     I'll  make  you  a  fire." 

He  took  her  back  to  the  shed.  But  she  did  not  go  in.  She 
crouched  on  the  ground  under  the  cherry-tree.  Young  Ger- 
ard moved  about  collecting  brushwood.  They  scarcely  looked 
at  each  other;  but  once  when  he  passed  her  he  said,  "You're 
shivering." 

"It's  because  I'm  so  wet,"  said  Thea. 

"Did  you  fall  in  the  water?" 

She  nodded.     "The  floods  were  so  strong." 

"It's  a  bad  night  for  swimming,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

"Yes,  shepherd."  She  then  said  again,  "Yes."  He  could  tell 
by  her  voice  that  she  was  smiling  faintly.  He  glanced  at  her 
and  saw  her  looking  at  him ;  both  smiled  a  little  and  glanced 
away  again.     He  began  to  pile  his  brushwood  for  the  fire. 

After  a  short  pause  she  said  timidly,  "Are  you  sore,  shep- 
herd?" 

"No,  I  feel  nothing,"  said  he. 

"They  beat  you  very  hard." 

"I  did  not  feel  their  blows." 

"How  could  you  not  feel  them?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
He  looked  at  her  again,  and  again  their  eyes  met,  and  again 
parted  quickly. 

"Now  I'll  strike  a  spark,"  said  Young  Gerard,  "and  you'll 
be  warm  soon.' 


»> 


>8    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

He  kindled  his  fire;  the  branches  crackled  and  burned,  and 
she  knelt  beside  the  blaze  and  held  her  hands  to  it. 

"I  was  never  here  by  night  before,"  she  said. 

"■'Yes,  once,"  said  Young  Gerard.  "You  often  came,  didn't 
you,  to  gather  flowers  in  the  morning  and  to  swim  in  the  river 
at  noon.    But  once  before  you  were  here  in  the  night." 

"Was  I?"  said  she. 

He  dropped  a  handful  of  cones  into  her  lap,  throwing  the 
last  on  the  fire.  She  threw  another  after  it,  and  smiled  as  it 
crackled. 

"I  remember,"  she  said.  "Thank  you,  shepherd.  You  were 
always  kind  and  found  me  the  things  I  wanted,  and  gave  me 
your  cup  to  drink  of.     Who'll  drink  of  it  now?" 

"No  one,"  he  said,  "ever  again." 

He  went  and  fetched  the  cup  and  gave  it  to  her.  "Burn 
that  too,"  said  Young  Gerard.  Thea  put  it  into  the  fire  and 
trembled.  When  it  was  burned  she  asked  very  low,  "Will  you 
be  lonely?" 

"I'll  have  my  sheep  and  my  thoughts." 

"Yes,"  said  Thea,  "and  stars  when  the  sheep  are  folded. 
The  stars  are  good  to  be  with  too." 

"Good  to  see  and  not  be  seen  by,"  he  said. 

"How  do  you  know  they  don't  see  you?"  she  asked  shyly. 

"One  shepherd  on  a  hill  isn't  much  for  the  eye  of  a  star.  He 
may  watch  them  unwatched,  while  they  come  and  go  in  their 
months.  Sometimes  there  aren't  any,  and  sometimes  not  more 
than  one  pricking  the  sky  near  the  moon.  But  to-night,  look! 
the  sky's  like  a  tree  with  full  branches." 

Thea  looked  up  and  said  with  a  child's  laugh,  "Break  me  a 
branch!" 

"I'd  want  Jacob's  Ladder  for  that,"  smiled  Young  Gerard. 

"Then  shake  the  tree  and  bring  them  down!"  she  in- 
sisted. 

"Here  come  your  stars,"  said  Young  Gerard.  Suddenly  she 
was  enveloped  in  a  failing  shower,  white  and  heavenly. 

"The  stars—!"  she  cried.     "Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"My  cherry-tree — it's  in  flower — "  said  Young  Gerard,  and 
his  voice  trembled.  She  looked  up  quickly  and  saw  that  he 
was  standing  beside  her,  shaking  the  tree  above  her  head.  And 
now  their  eyes  met  and  did  not  separate.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  broke  a  branch  from  the  tree  and  offered  it  to  her.  She 
took  it  from  him  slowly,  as  though  she  were  in  a  dream,  and 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    79 

laid  it  in  her  lap,  and  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
cry. 

Young  Gerard  whispered,  "Why  are  you  crying?" 

Thea  said,  "Oh,  my  wedding,  my  wedding!  Only  last  year 
I  thought  of  the  night  of  my  wedding  and  how  it  would  be.  It 
was  not  with  torchlight  and  shouting  and  wine,  but  moonlight 
and  silence  and  the  scent  of  wild  blossoms.  And  now  I  know 
that  it  was  not  the  night  of  my  wedding  I  dreamed  of." 

"What  did  you  dream  of?"  asked  Young  Gerard. 

"The  night  of  my  first  love." 

"Thea,"  said  Young  Gerard,  and  he  knelt  beside  her. 

"And  my  love's  first  kiss." 

"Oh,  Thea,"  said  Young  Gerard,  and  he  took  her  hands. 

"Why  did  you  not  feel  their  blows?"  she  said.    "I  felt  them." 

Their  arms  went  round  each  other,  and  for  the  second  time 
that  night  they  kissed. 

Young  Gerard  said,  "I've  always  wondered  if  this  would 
happen." 

And  Thea  answered,  "I  didn't  know  it  would  be  you." 

"Didn't  you?  didn't  you?"  he  whispered,  stroking  her  head, 
wondering  at  himself  doing  what  he  had  so  often  dreamed  of 
doing. 

"Oh,"  she  faltered,  "sometimes  I  thought — it  might — be 
you,  darling." 

"Thea,  Thea!" 

"When  I  came  over  the  Mount  to  swim  in  the  river,  and 
saw  you  in  the  distance  among  your  sheep,  there  was  a  swifter 
river  running  through  all  my  body.  When  I  came  every  April 
to  ask  for  your  cherry-tree,  what  did  it  matter  to  me  that  it 
was  not  in  bloom  ?  for  all  my  heart  was  wild  with  bloom,  oh, 
Gerard,  my — lover!" 

"Oh,  Thea,  my  love!  What  can  I  give  you,  Thea,  I,  a  shep- 
herd?" 

"You  were  the  lord  of  the  earth,  and  you  gave  me  its  flowers 
and  its  birds  and  its  secret  waters.  What  more  could  you  give 
me,  you,  a  shepherd  and  my  lord?" 

"The  wild  white  bloom  of  its  fruit-trees  that  comes  to  the 
branches  in  April  like  love  to  the  heart.  I'll  give  it  you  now. 
Sit  here,  sit  here!  I'll  make  you  a  bower  of  the  cherry,  and  a 
crown,  and  a  carpet  too.  There's  nothing  in  all  April  lovely 
and  wild  enough  for  you  to-night,  your  bridal  night,  my  lady 
and  my  darling!" 


8o    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

And  in  a  great  fit  of  joy  he  broke  branch  after  branch  from 
the  tree  as  she  sat  at  its  foot,  and  set  them  about  her,  and  filled 
her  arms  to  overflowing,  and  crowned  her  with  blossoms,  and 
shook  the  bloom  under  her  feet,  till  her  shy  happy  face,  paling 
and  reddening  by  turns,  looked  out  from  a  world  of  flowers  and 
she  cried  between  laughing  and  weeping,  "Oh,  Gerard,  oh, 
you're  drowning  me!" 

"It's  the  April  floods,"  shouted  Young  Gerard,  "and  I 
must  drown  with  you,  Thea,  Thea,  Thea!"  And  he  cast  him- 
self down  beside  her,  and  clasped  her  amid  all  the  blossoming, 
and  with  his  head  on  her  shoulder  kissed  and  kissed  her  till  he 
was  breathless  and  she  as  pale  as  the  flowers  that  smothered 
their  kisses. 

And  then  suddenly  he  folded  her  in  the  green  mantle, 
blossoms  and  all,  and  sprang  up  and  lifted  her  to  his  breast  till 
she  lay  like  a  child  in  the  arms  of  its  mother;  and  he  picked  up 
the  lantern  and  said,  "Now  we  will  go  away  for  ever." 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  whispered  with  shining  eyes. 

"To  the  Wildbrooks,"  he  said. 

"To  drown  in  the  floods  together?"  She  closed  her 
eyes. 

"There's  a  way  through  all  floods,"  said  Young  Gerard. 

And  he  ran  with  her  over  the  hills  with  all  his  speed. 

And  Old  Gerard  returned  to  a  hut  as  empt>'  as  it  had  been 
one-and-twenty  years  ago.  And  they  say  that  Combe  Ivy,  hav- 
ing never  set  eyes  on  the  boy  in  his  life,  swore  that  the  shep- 
herd's tale  had  been  a  fiction  from  first  to  last,  and  kept  him  a 
serf  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

("What  a  night  of  stars  it  is!"  said  Martin  Pippin,  stretch- 
ing his  arms. 

"Good  heavens,  Master  Pippin,"  cried  Joyce,  "what  a  mo- 
ment to  mention  it!" 

"It  is  worth  mentioning,"  said  Martin,  "at  all  moments  when 
it  is  so.  I  would  not  think  of  mentioning  it  in  the  middle  of  a 
snowstorm." 

"You  should  as  little  think  of  mentioning  it,"  said  Joyce,  "in 
the  middle  of  a  story." 

"But  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  story.  Mistress  Joyce." 

Joscelyn:  Preposterous!  Oh!  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so? 
I  am  ashamed  of  you ! 

Martin  :     Dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  I  thank  you  in  charity's 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    8i 

name  for  being  that  for  me  which  I  have  never  yet  succeeded 
in  being  for  myself. 

Joscelyn:  What!  are  you  not  ashamed  to  offer  us  a  broken 
gift?  Your  story  is  like  a  cracked  pitcher  with  half  the  milk 
leaked  out.  What  was  the  secret  of  the  Lantern,  the  Cloak, 
and  the  Cherry-tree? 

Joyce  :  Who  was  the  lovely  lady,  his  mother  ?  and  who  the 
old  crone? 

Jennifer:  What  was  the  end  of  the  Rough  Master  of 
Coates  ? 

Jessica:  Did  not  the  lovers  drown  in  the  floods? 

Jane:    And  if  they  did  not,  what  became  of  them? 

"Please,"  said  little  Joan,  "tell  us  why  Young  Gerard 
dreamed  those  dreams.     Oh,  please  tell  us  what  happened." 

"Women's  taste  is  for  trifles,"  said  Martin.  "I  have  oifered 
you  my  cake,  and  you  wish  only  to  pick  off  the  nuts  and  the 
cherries." 

"No,"  said  Joan,  "we  wish  you  to  put  them  on.  Do  you  not 
love  nuts  and  cherries  on  a  cake?" 

"More  than  anything,"  said  Martin.) 

A  long  while  ago,  dear  maidens,  there  were  Lords  in  Gay 
Street,  and  up  and  down  the  Street  the  cherry-trees  bloomed 
i.i  Spring  as  they  bloomed  nowhere  else  in  Sussex,  and  under  the 
trees  sang  and  danced  the  loveliest  lads  and  lasses  in  all  Eng- 
land, with  hearts  like  children.  And  on  all  their  holiday 
clothes  they  worked  the  leaf  and  branch  and  flower  and  fruit 
of  the  cherry.  And  they  never  wore  anything  else  but  their 
holiday  clothes,  because  in  Gay  Street  it  was  always  holidays. 

And  a  long  while  ago  there  were  Gypsies  on  Nyetimber 
Common,  the  merriest  Gypsies  in  the  southlands,  with  the  gay- 
est tatters  and  the  brightest  eyes,  and  the  maddest  hearts  for 
mirth-making.  They  were  also  makers  of  lanterns  when  they 
were  anything  else  but  what  all  Gypsies  are. 

And  once  the  son  of  a  Gypsy  King  loved  the  daughter  of  a 
Lord  of  Gay  Street,  and  she  loved  him.  And  because  of  this 
there  was  wrath  in  Gay  Street  and  scorn  on  Nyetimber,  and 
all  things  were  done  to  keep  the  lovers  apart.  But  they  who 
attempt  this  might  more  profitably  chase  wild  geese.  So  one 
night  in  April  they  were  taken  under  one  of  her  father's  own 
wild  cherries  by  the  light  of  one  of  his  father's  own  lanterns. 
And  it  was  her  father  and  his  father  who  found  them,  as  they 


82    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

had  missed  them,  in  the  same  moment,  and  were  come  hunting 
for  sweethearts  by  night  with  their  people  behind  them. 

Then  the  Lord  of  Gay  Street  pronounced  a  curse  of  banish- 
ment on  his  own  daughter,  that  she  must  go  far  away  beyond 
the  country  of  the  floods,  and  another  on  his  own  tree,  that 
it  might  never  blossom  more.  And  there  and  then  it  withered. 
And  the  Gypsy  King  pronounced  as  dark  a  curse  of  banishment 
on  his  own  son,  and  a  second  on  his  own  lantern,  that  it  might 
never  more  give  light.     And  there  and  then  it  went  out. 

Then  from  the  crowd  of  gj^psies  came  the  oldest  of  them  all, 
who  was  the  King's  great-grandmother,  and  she  looked  from 
the  angry  parents  to  the  unhappy  lovers  and  said,  "You  can 
blight  the  tree  and  make  the  lantern  dark;  nevertheless  you 
cannot  extinguish  the  flower  and  the  light  of  love.  And  till 
these  things  lift  the  curse  and  are  seen  again  united  among 
you,  there  will  be  no  Lords  in  Gay  Street  nor  Kings  on  Nye- 
timber." 

And  she  broke  a  shoot  from  the  cherry  and  picked  up  the 
lantern  and  gave  them  to  the  lady  and  her  lover;  and  then  she 
took  them  one  by  each  hand  and  went  away.  And  the  Lord 
of  Gay  Street  and  the  Gypsy  King  died  soon  after  without 
heirs,  and  the  joy  went  out  of  the  hearts  of  both  peoples,  and 
they  dressed  in  sad  colors  for  one-and-twenty  years. 

But  the  three  traveled  south  through  the  country  of  the 
floods,  and  on  the  way  the  King's  son  was  drowned,  as  others 
had  been  before  him,  and  after  him  the  Rough  Master  of 
Coates.  But  the  crone  brought  the  lady  safely  through,  and 
how  she  was  at  once  delivered  of  her  son  and  her  sorrow,  dear 
maidens,  you  know. 

And  for  one-and-twenty  years  the  crone  was  seen  no  more, 
and  then  of  a  sudden  she  re-appeared  at  daybreak  and  bade  her 
people  put  on  their  bright  apparel  because  their  King  was  com- 
ing with  a  young  Queen;  and  after  this  she  led  them  to  Gay 
Street  where  she  bade  the  folk  to  don  their  holiday  attire,  be- 
cause their  Lord  was  on  his  way  with  a  fair  Lady.  And  all 
those  girls  and  boys,  the  dark  and  the  light,  felt  the  child  of  joy 
in  their  hearts  again,  and  they  went  in  the  morning  with  sing- 
ing and  dancing  to  welcome  the  comers  under  the  cherry-trees. 

I  entreat  you  now,  Mistress  Joyce,  for  the  second  hair  from 
your  head. 


SECOND  INTERLUDE 

THE  milkmaids  put  their  forgotten  apples  to  their  mouths, 
and  the  chatter  began  to  run  out  of  them  like  juice  from 
bitten  fruit. 

Jessica:    What  did  you  think  of  this  story,  Jane? 

Jane:  I  did  not  know  what  to  think,  Jessica,  until  the  very 
conclusion,  and  then  I  was  too  amazed  to  think  anything.  For 
who  would  have  imagined  the  young  Shepherd  to  be  in  reality 
a  lord? 

Martin:  Few  of  us  are  what  we  seem,  Mistress  Jane. 
Even  chimney-sweeps  are  Jacks-in-Green  on  May-Days;  for 
the  other  three-hundred-and-sixty-four  days  in  the  year  they 
pretend  to  be  chimney-sweeps.  And  I  have  actually  known 
men  who  appeared  to  be  haters  of  women,  when  they  secretly 
loved   them  most  tenderly. 

Joscelyn:  It  does  not  surprise  me  to  hear  this.  I  have 
always  understood  men  to  be  composed  of  caprices. 

Martin  :  They  are  composed  of  nothing  else.  I  see  you 
know  them   through  and   through. 

Joscelyn:  I  do  not  know  anything  at  all  about  them. 
We  do  not  study  what  does  not  interest  us. 

Martin:  I  hope,  Mistress  Joscelyn,  you  found  my  story 
worthy  of  study? 

Joscelyn:  It  served  its  turn.  Might  one,  by  going  to 
Rackham  Hill,  see  this  same  cherry-tree  and  this  same  shed? 

Martin:  Alas,  no.  The  shed  rotted  with  time  and 
weather,  and  bit  by  bit  its  sides  were  rebuilt  with  stone.  And 
the  cherry-tree  Old  Gerard  chopped  down  in  a  fury,  and 
made  firewood  of  it.  But  it  too  had  served  its  turn.  For 
as  every  man's  life  (and  perhaps,  but  you  must  answer  for 
this,  every  woman's  life),  awaits  the  hour  of  blossoming  that 
makes  it  immortal,  so  this  tree  passed  in  a  single  night  from 
sterility  to  immortality;  and  it  mattered  as  little  if  its  body 
were  burned  the  next  day,  as  it  would  have  mattered  had 
Gerard  and  Thea  gone  down  through  the  waters  that  night 
instead  of  many  years  later,  after  a  life-time  of  great  joy  and 
delight. 

83 


84    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Joyce:  I  am  glad  of  that.  There  were  moments  when  I 
feared  it  would  not  be  so. 

Jennifer:  I  too.  For  how  could  it  be  otherwise,  seeing 
that  he  was  a  shepherd   and  she  a  lord's  daughter? 

Jessica:  And  when  it  was  related  how  she  was  to  wed 
the  Rough  Master  of  Coates,  my  hopes  were  dashed  entirely. 

Jane:  And  when  they  beat  Young  Gerard  I  was  perfectly 
certain  he  was  dead. 

Joan:  I  rather  fancied  the  tale  would  end  happily,  all  the 
same. 

Martin  :  I  fancied  so  too.  For  though  any  of  these  acci- 
dents would  have  marred  the  ending,  love  is  a  divinity  above 
all  accidents,  and  guards  his  own  with  extraordinary  obstinacy. 
Nothing  could  have  thwarted  him  of  his  way  but  one  thing. 

Five  of  the  Milkmaids:     Oh,  what? 

Martin:  Had  Thea  been  one  of  those  who  are  not  inter- 
ested in  the  study  of  men. 

Nobody  said  anything  in  the  Apple-Orchard. 

JoscELYN :  She  need  not  have  been  condemned  to  unhappi- 
ness  on  that  account,  singer.  And  what  does  the  happiness  or 
unhappiness  of  an  idle  story  weigh?  Whether  she  wedded  an- 
other, or  whether  they  were  parted  by  whatever  cause,  such 
as  her  superior  station,  or  even  his  death,  it's  all  one  to  me. 

Jennifer:     And  me. 

Jessica:     And  me. 

Jane:     And  me. 

Martin:  The  tale  is  judged.  Let  it  go  hang.  For  a 
cloud  has  dropped  over  nine-tenths  of  the  moon,  like  the  eye- 
lid of  a  girl  who  still  peeps  through  her  lashes,  but  will  soon 
fall  asleep  for  weariness.  I  have  made  her  lids  as  heavy  as 
yours  with  my  poor  story.    Let  us  all  sleep  and  forget  it. 

So  the  girls  lay  down  in  the  grass  and  slept.  But  Joyce 
went  on  swinging.  And  every  time  she  swayed  past  him  she 
looked  at  Martin,  and  her  lips  opened  and  shut  again,  nothing 
having  escaped  them  but  a  very  little  laughter.  The  tenth 
time  this  happened  Martin  said : 

"What  keeps  your  lashes  open.  Mistress  Joyce,  when  your 
comrades'  lie  tangled  on  their  cheeks?  Is  it  the  same  thing 
that  opens  your  lips  and  peeps  through  the  doorway  and  runs 
away  again?" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    85 

"Must  my  lashes  shut  because  others'  do?"  said  Joyce.  "May 
not  lashes  have  whims  of  their  own?" 

"Nothing  is  more  whimsical,"  said  Martin  Pippin.  "I  have 
known,  for  instance,  lashes  that  ufill  be  golden  though  the  hair 
of  the  head  be  dark.     It  is  a  silly  trick." 

"I  don't  dislike  such  lashes,"  said  Joyce.  "That  is,  I  think 
I  should  not  if  ever  I  saw  them." 

Martin:  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  should  love  them  in 
a  woman. 

Joyce:     I  never  saw  them  in  a  woman. 

Martin:     In  a  man  they  would  be  regrettable. 

Joyce:     Then  why  did  you  give  them  to  Young  Gerard? 

Martin  :  Did  I  ?  It  was  pure  carelessness.  Let  us  change 
the  color  of  his  lashes. 

Joyce:  No,  no!  I  will  not  have  them  changed.  I  would 
not  for  the  world. 

Martin  :  Dear  Mistress  Joyce,  if  I  had  the  world  to  offer 
you,  I  would  sit  by  the  road  and  break  it  with  a  pickax  rather 
than  change  a  single  eyelash  in  Young  Gerard's  lids.  Since  you 
love  them. 

Joyce:     Oh,  did  I  say  so? 

Martin:  Didn't  you? — Mistress  Joyce,  when  you  laugh  I 
am  ready  to  forgive  you  all  your  debts. 

Joyce:     Why,  what  do  I  owe  you? 

Martin  :     An  eyelash. 

Joyce:     I  am  sure  I  do  not. 

Martin:  No?  Then  a  hair  of  some  sort.  How  will  you 
be  able  to  sleep  to-night  with  a  hair  on  your  conscience?  For 
your  own  sake,  lift  that  crowbar. 

Joyce:  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  fear  to  redeem  my  promise 
lest  you  are  unable  to  redeem  yours. 

Martin:     Which  was? 

Joyce:  To  blow  it  to  its  fellow,  who  Is  now  wandering  in 
the  night  like  thistledown. 

Martin  :     I  will  do  it,  nevertheless. 

Joyce:  It  is  easier  promised  than  proved..  But  here  is  the 
hair. 

Martin:     Are  you  certain  it  is  the  same  hair? 

Joyce:     I  kept  it  wound  round  my  finger. 
Martin  :     I   know  no  better  way  of  keeping  a  hair.     So 
here  it  goes! 


86    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

And  he  held  the  hair  to  his  lips  and  blew  on  it. 

Martin:     A  blessing  on  it.     It  will  soon  be  wedded. 

Joyce:     I  have  your  word  for  it. 

Martin:  You  shall  have  your  eyes  for  it  if  you  will  tell 
me  one  thing. 

Joyce:     Is  it  a  little  thing? 

Martin:  It's  as  trifling  as  a  hair.  I  wish  only  to  know 
why  you  have  fallen  out  with  men. 

Joyce:  For  the  best  of  reasons.  Why,  Master  Pippin! 
they  say  the  world  is  round! 

Martin:  Heaven  preserve  us!  was  ever  so  giddy  a  state- 
ment? Round?  Why,  the  world's  as  full  of  edges  as  the 
dealings  of  men  and  women,  in  which  you  can  scarcely  go  a 
day's  march  without  reaching  the  end  of  all  things  and  tumbling 
into  heaven.  I  tell  you  I  have  traveled  the  world  more  than 
any  man  living,  and  it  takes  me  all  my  time  to  keep  from 
falling  off  the  brink.  Round?  The  world  is  one  great  preci- 
pice! 

Joyce  :  I  said  so !  I  said  so !  I  know  I  was  right !  I  should 
like  to  tell — them  so. 

Martin:  Were  you  only  able  to  go  out  of  the  Orchard, 
you  would  be  free  to  tell — them  so.  They  are  such  fools,  these 
men. 

Joyce:  Not  in  all  matters,  Master  Pippin,  but  certainly  in 
this.    They  are  good  at  some  things. 

Martin:     For  my  part  I  can't  think  what. 

Joyce:     They  whitewash  cowsheds  beautifully. 

Martin:  Who  wouldn't?  Whitewash  is  such  beautiful 
stuff.  No,  let  us  be  done  with  these  round-minded  men  and 
go  to  bed.    Good  night,  dear  milkmaid. 

Joyce:  Ah,  but  singer!  you  have  not  yet  proved  your 
fable  of  the  two  hairs,  which  you  swore  were  as  hard  to  keep 
apart  as  the  two  lovers  in  your  tale. 

"Whom  love  guarded  against  accidents,"  said  Martin;  and 
he  held  out  to  her  the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand,  and  wound 
at  its  base  were  the  two  hairs,  in  a  ring  as  fine  as  a  cobweb. 
She  took  his  finger  between  two  of  hers  and  laughed,  and 
examined  it,  and  laughed  again. 

"You  have  been  playing  the  god  of  love  to  my  hairs,"  said 
Joyce. 

"Somebody  must  protect  those  that  cannot,  or  will  not,  be 
kind  to  themselves,"  said  Martin.    And  then  his  other  fingers 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    87 

closed  quickly  on  her  hand,  and  he  said :  "Dear  Mistress  Joyce, 
help  me  to  play  the  god  of  love  to  Gillian,  and  give  me  your 
key  to  the  Well-House,  because  there  were  moments  when  you 
feared  my  tale  would  end  unhappily." 

She  pulled  her  hand  away  and  began  to  swing  rapidly,  with- 
out answering.  But  presently  she  exclaimed,  "Oh,  oh!  it  has 
dropped !" 

"What?  what?"  said  Martin  anxiously. 

But  she  only  cried  again,  "Oh,  my  heart!  it  has  dropped 
under  the  swing." 

"In  love's  name,"  said  Martin,  "let  me  recover  your  heart." 

He  groped  in  the  grass  and  found  what  she  had  dropped, 
and  then  was  obliged  to  fall  flat  on  his  back  to  escape  her  feet 
as  she  swung. 

"Well,  any  time's  a  time  for  laughing,"  said  Martin,  crawl- 
ing forth  and  getting  on  his  knees.  "Here's  the  key  to  your 
heart,  laughing  Joyce." 

"Oh,  Martin!  how  can  I  take  it  with  my  hands  on  the 
ropes?" 

"Then  I'll  lay  it  on  your  lap," 

"Oh,  Martin!  how  do  you  expect  it  to  stay  there  while  I 
swing?" 

"Then  you  must  stop  swinging." 

"Oh,  Martin!  I  will  never  stop  swinging  as  long  as  I 
live!" 

"Then  what  must  I  do  with  this  key?" 

"Oh,  Martin!  why  do  you  bother  me  so  about  an  old  key? 
Can't  you  see  I'm  busy?" 

"Oh,  Joyce!  when  you  laugh  I  must — I  must — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  must!" 

And  he  caught  her  two  little  feet  in  his  hands  as  she  next 
flew  by,  and  kissed  each  one  upon  the  instep. 

Then  he  ran  to  his  bed  under  the  hedge,  and  she  sat  where 
she  was  till  her  laughing  turned  to  smiling,  and  her  smiling 
to  sleeping. 

"Maids!  maids!  maids!" 
It  was  morning. 

"To  your  hiding-place,  Master  Pippin!"  urged  Joscelyn. 
"It's  our  master  come  again." 

Martin  concealed  himself  with  speed,  and  an  instant  later 


88    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

the  farmer's  burly  face  peered  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge. 

"Good  morrow,   maids." 

"Good  morrow,  master." 

"Has  my  daughter  stopped  weeping  yet?" 

"No,  master,"  said  Joyce,  "but  I  begin  to  think  that  she  will 
before  long." 

"A  little  longer  will  be  too  long,"  moaned  Gillman,  "for 
my  purse  is  running  dry  with  these  droughty  times,  and  I  shall 
have  to  mortgage  the  farm  to  buy  me  ale,  since  I  am  foiled  of 
both  water  and  milk.  Who  would  have  daughters  when  he 
might  have  sons?  Gillian!"  he  cried,  "when  will  ye  learn  that 
old  heads  are  wiser  than  young  ones?" 

But  Gillian  paid  no  more  attention  to  him  than  to  the  caw- 
ing rooks  in  the  elms  in  the  oatfield. 

"Take  your  bread,  maids,"  said  Gillman,  "and  heaven  send 
us  grace  to-morrow." 

"Just  an  instant,  master,"  said  Joyce.  "I  would  like  to  know 
if  Blossom  my  Shorthorn  is  well?" 

"As  well  as  a  child  without  its  mother,  maid,  though 
Michael  has  turned  nurse  to  her.  But  she  seems  sworn  to 
hold  back  her  milk  till  you  come  again.  Rack  and  ruin,  noth- 
ing but  rack  and  ruin!" 

And  off  he  went. 

Then  breakfast  was  prepared  as  on  the  previous  day,  and 
Gillian's  stale  loaf  was  broken  for  the  ducks.  But  Joscelyn 
pointed  out  that  one  of  the  kissing-crusts  had  been  pulled  o£E 
in  the  night. 

"Your  stories,  Master  Pippin,  are  doing  their  work,"  said 
she. 

"I  begin  to  think  so,"  said  Martin  cheerfully.  And  then 
they  fell  to  on  their  own  white  loaves  and  sweet  apples. 

When  they  had  breakfasted  Martin  observed  that  he  could 
make  better  and  longer  daisy-chains  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  and  his  statement  was  pooh-poohed  by  six  voices  at 
once.  For  girls'  fingers,  said  these  voices,  had  been  especially 
fashioned  by  nature  for  the  making  of  daisy-chains.  Martin 
challenged  them  to  prove  this,  and  they  plucked  lapfuls  of  the 
small  white  daisies  with  big  yellow  eyes,  and  threaded  chains 
of  great  length,  and  hung  them  about  each  other's  necks.  And 
so  deft  and  dainty  was  their  touch  that  the  chains  never  broke 
in  the  making  or,  what  is  still  more  delicate  a  matter,  in  the 
hanging.      But   Martin's   chains   always   broke   before   he   had 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    89 

joined  the  last  daisy  to  the  first,  and  the  girls  jeered  at  him 
for  having  no  necklace  to  match  their  necklaces  of  pearls  and 
gold,  and  for  failing  so  contemptibly  in  his  boast.  And  he  ap- 
peared so  abashed  by  their  jeers  that  little  Joan  relented  and 
made  a  longer  chain  than  any  that  had  been  made  yet,  and 
hung  it  round  his  neck.  At  which  he  was  merry  again,  and 
confessed  himself  beaten,  and  the  girls  became  very  gracious, 
being  in  their  triumph  even  more  pleased  with  him  than  with 
themselves.  Which  was  a  great  deal.  And  by  then  it  was 
dinner-time. 

After  dinner  Martin  proposed  that  as  they  had  sat  all  the 
morning  they  should  run  all  the  afternoon,  so  they  played 
Touchwood.  And  Martin  was  He.  But  an  orchard  is  so  full 
of  wood  that  he  had  a  hard  job  of  it.  And  he  observed  that 
Jennifer  had  very  little  daring,  and  scarcely  ever  lifted  her 
finger  from  the  wood  as  she  ran  from  one  tree  to  another; 
and  that  Jane  had  no  daring  at  all,  and  never  even  left  her 
tree.  And  that  Joscelyn  was  extremely  daring  when  it  was 
safe  to  be  so ;  and  that  Jessica  was  daring  enough  to  tweak 
him  and  run  away,  while  Joyce  was  more  daring  still,  for  she 
tweaked  him  and  did  not  run.  As  for  little  Joan,  she  puzzled 
him  most  of  all ;  for  half  the  time  she  outdid  them  all  in  daring, 
and  then  she  was  uncatchable,  slipping  through  his  very  fin- 
gers like  a  ray  of  sunlight  a  child  tries  to  hold ;  but  the  other 
half  of  the  time  she  was  timidity  itself,  and  crept  from  tree 
to  tree,  and  if  he  were  near  became  like  a  little  frightened 
rabbit,  forgetting,  or  being  through  fear  unable,  to  touch  safety ; 
and  then  she  was  snared  more  easily  than  any. 

By  supper,  however,  every  maid  had  been  He  but  Jane. 
For  no  man  can  catch  what  doesn't  run. 

"How  the  time  has  flown,"  said  Joscelyn,  when  they  were 
all  seated  about  the  middle  tree  after  the  meal. 

"It  makes  such  a  difference,"  said  Jennifer,  "when  there's 
something  to  do.  We  never  used  to  have  anything  to  do  till 
Master  Pippin  came,  and  now  life  is  all  games  and  stories." 

"The  games,"  said  Joscelyn,  "are  well  enough." 

"Shall  we,"  said  Martin,  "forego  the  stories?" 

"Oh,  Master  Pippin !"  said  Jennifer  anxiously,  "we  surely 
are  to  have  a  story  to-night?" 

"Unless  we  are  to  remain  here  for  ever,"  said  Martin,  "I 
fear  we  must.  But  for  my  part  I  am  quite  happy  here.  Are 
not  you,  Mistress  Joscelyn?" 


90    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Your  questions  are  idle,"  said  she.  "You  know  very  well 
that  we  cannot  escape  a  story." 

"You  see,  Mistress  Jennifer,"  said  Martin.  "Let  us  resign 
ourselves  therefore.  And  for  your  better  diversion,  please  sit 
in  the  swing,  and  when  the  story  is  tedious  you  will  have  a 
remedy  at  hand." 

So  saying,  he  put  Jennifer  on  the  seat  and  her  hands  on 
the  ropes,  and  the  five  other  girls  climbed  into  the  tree,  while 
he  took  the  bough  that  had  become  his  own.     And  all  pro- 
vided   themselves  with    apples. 
"Begin,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"A  story-teller,"  said  Martin,  "as  much  as  any  other  crafts- 
man, needs  his  instruments,  of  which  his  auditors  are  the  chief. 
And  of  these  I  lack  one."  And  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  weeper 
in  the  Well-House. 

"You  have  six  already,"  said  Joscelyn.  "The  seventh  you 
must  acquire  as  you  proceed.     So  begin." 

"Without  the  vital  tool?"  cried  Martin.     "As  well  might 
you  bid  Madam  Toad  to  spin  flax  without  her  distaff." 
"What  folly  is  this?"  said  Joscelyn.     "Toads  don't  spin." 
"Don't  they?"  said  Martin,  much  astonished.     "I   thought 
they  did.     What  then   is  toadflax?     Do  the  wildflowers  not 
know?" 

And  still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  Gillian  he  thrummed  and 
sang — 

Toad,  toad,  old  toad, 

What  are  you  spinning? 
Seven  hanks  of  yellow  flax 

Into  snoiu-ivhite  linen. 
What  ivill  you  do  ivith  it 

Then,  toad,  pray? 
Make  shifts  for  seven   brides 

Against  their  wedding-day. 
Suppose   e'er   a   one   of   them 

Refuses  to   be  ived? 
Then  she  shall  not  see  the  jewel 

I  wear  in  my  head. 

As  he  concluded,  Gillian  raised  herself  on  her  two  elbows, 
and  with  her  chin  on  her  palms  gazed  steadily  over  the  duck- 
pond. 

Joscelyn:     Why  seven? 

Martin  :     Is  it  not  as  good  a  number  as  another  ? 

Jennifer:  What  is  the  jewel  like  in  the  toad's  head,  Mas- 
ter Pippin? 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    91 

Martin:  How  can  I  say,  Mistress  Jennifer?  There's  but 
one  way  of  knowing,  according  to  the  song,  and  like  a  fool  I 
refused  it. 

Jennifer:     I  wish  I  knew. 

Martin  :     The  way  lies  open  to  all. 

JoscELYN :  These  are  silly  legends,  Jennifer.  It  is  as  little 
likely  that  there  are  jewels  in  toads'  heads  as  that  toads  spin 
flax.     But  Master  Pippin  pins  his  faith  to  any  nonsense. 

Martin:  True,  Mistress  Joscelyn.  My  faith  cries  for 
elbow-room,  and  he  who  pins  his  faith  to  common-sense  is  like 
to  get  a  cramp  in  it.  Therefore  since  women,  as  I  hear  tell, 
have  ceased  to  spin  brides'  shifts,  I  am  obliged  to  believe  that 
these  things  are  spun  by  toads.  Because  brides  there  must  be 
though  the  wells  should  run  dry. 

Joscelyn:  I  do  not  see  the  connection.  However,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  bad  logic  of  your  song  has  aroused  even  Gil- 
lian's attention,  so  for  mercj^'s  sake  make  short  work  of  your 
tale  before  it  flags  again. 

Martin:  I  will  follow  your  advice.  And  do  you  follow 
me  with  your  best  attention  while  I  turn  the  wheel  of  The  Mill 
of  Dreams. 


THE  MILL  OF  DREAMS 

THERE  was  once,  dear  maidens,  a  girl  who  lived  in  a 
mill  on  the  Sidlesham  marshes.  But  in  those  days  the 
marshlands  were  meadowlands,  with  streams  running 
in  from  the  coast,  so  that  their  water  was  brackish  and  salt. 
And  sometimes  the  girl  dipped  her  finger  in  the  water  and 
sucked  it  and  tasted  the  sea.  And  the  taste  made  storms  rise 
in  her  heart.     Her  name  was  Helen. 

The  mill-house  was  a  gaunt  and  gloomy  building  of  stone, 
as  gray  as  sleep,  weatherstained  with  dreams.  It  had  fine 
proportions,  and  looked  like  a  noble  prison.  And  in  fact,  if 
a  prison  is  the  lockhouse  of  secrets,  it  was  one.  The  great 
millstones  ground  day  and  night,  and  what  the  world  sent  in 
as  corn  it  got  back  as  flour.  And  as  to  the  secrets  of  the 
grinding  it  asked  no  questions,  because  to  the  world  results 
are  everything.  It  understands  death  better  than  sorrow,  mar- 
riage better  than  love,  and  birth  better  than  creation.  And 
the  millstones  of  joy  and  pain,  grinding  dreams  into  bread, 
it  seldom  hears.  But  Helen  heard  them,  and  they  were  all 
the  knowledge  she  had  of  life;  for  if "  the  mill  was  a  prison 
of  dreams  it  was  her  prison  too. 

Her  father  the  miller  was  a  harsh  man  and  dark;  he  was 
dark  within  and  without.  Her  mother  was  dead ;  she  did  not 
remember  her.  ^  As  she  grew  up  she  did  little  by  little  the 
work  of  the  big  place.  She  was  her  father's  servant,  and 
he  kept  her  as  close  to  her  work  as  he  kept  his  millstones  to 
theirs.  He  was  morose,  and  welcomed  no  company.  Gayety 
he  hated.  Helen  knew  no  songs,  for  she  had  heard  none. 
From  morning  till  night  she  worked  for  her  father.  When 
she  had  done  all  her  other  work  she  spun  flax  into  linen  for 
shirts  and  gowns,  and  wool  for  stockings  and  vests.  If  she 
went  outside  the  mill-house,  it  was  only  for  a  few  steps  for 
a  few  moments.  She  wasn't  two  miles  from  the  sea,  but  she 
had  never  seen  it.  But  she  tasted  the  salt  water  and  smelt 
the  salt  wind. 

Like  all  things  that  grow  up  away  from  the  light,  she  was 

92 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    93 

pale.  Her  oval  face  was  like  ivory,  and  her  lips,  instead  of 
being  scarlet,  had  the  tender  red  of  apple-blossom,  after  the 
unfolding  of  the  bright  bud.  Her  hair  was  black  and  smooth 
and  heavy,  and  lay  on  either  side  of  her  face  like  a  starling's 
wings.  Her  eyes  too  were  as  black  as  midnight,  and  sometimes 
like  midnight  they  were  deep  and  sightless.  But  when  she 
was  neither  working  nor  spinning  she  would  steal  away  to 
the  millstones,  and  stand  there  watching  and  listening.  And 
then  there  were  two  stars  in  the  midnight.  She  came  away 
from  those  stolen  times  powdered  with  flour.  Her  black  hair 
and  her  brows  and  lashes,  her  old  blue  gown,  her  rough  hands 
and  fair  neck,  and  her  white  face — all  that  was  dark  and  pale 
in  her  was  merged  in  a  mist,  and  seen  only  through  the  cling- 
ing dust  of  the  millstones.  She  would  try  to  wipe  off  all  the 
evidences  of  her  secret  occasions,  but  her  father  generally 
knew.  Had  he  known  by  nothing  else,  he  need  only  have 
looked  at  her  eyes  before  they  lost  their  starlight. 

One  day  when  she  was  seventeen  years  old  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  mill-house  door.  Nobody  ever  knocked.  Her  father 
was  the  only  man  who  came  in  and  went  out.  The  mill  stood 
solitary  in  those  days.  The  face  of  the  country  has  since  been 
changed  by  man  and  God,  but  at  that  time  there  were  no 
habitations  in  sight.  At  regular  times  the  peasants  brought 
their  grain  and  fetched  their  meal ;  but  the  miller  kept 
his  daughter  away  from  his  custom.  He  never  said  why. 
Doubtless  at  the  back  of  his  mind  was  the  thought  of  losing 
what  was  useful  to  him.  Most  parents  have  their  ways  of 
trying  to  keep  their  children;  in  some  it  is  this  way,  in  others 
that;  not  many  learn  to  keep  them  by  letting  them  go. 

So  when  the  knock  came  at  the  door,  it  was  the  strangest 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  in  Helen's  life.  She  ran  to  the 
door  and  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  heavy  wooden  bar  that 
fell  across  it  into  a  great  socket.  Her  heart  beat  fast.  Be- 
fore we  know  a  thing  it  is  a  thousand  things.  Only  one  thing 
would  be  there  when  she  lifted  the  bar.  But  as  she  stood 
with  her  hand  upon  it,  a  host  of  presences  hovered  on  the 
other  side.  A  knight  in  armor,  a  king  in  his  gold  crown,  a 
god  in  the  guise  of  a  beggar,  an  angel  with  a  sword  ;  a  dragon 
even ;  a  woman  to  be  her  friend ;  her  mother  ...  a  child  .  .  . 

VWould  it  be  better  not  to  open?"  thought  Helen.  For 
then  she  would  never  know.  Yes,  then  she  could  run  to  her 
millstones  and  fling  them  her  thoughts  in  the  husk,  and  listen, 


94    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

listen  while  they  ground  them  into  dreams.  What  knowledge 
would  be  better  than  that?  What  would  she  lose  by  opening 
the  door? 

But  she  had  to  open  the  door. 

Outside  on  the  stones  stood  a  common  lad.  He  might  have 
been  three  years  older  than  she.  He  had  a  cap  with  a  hole  in 
it  in  his  hand,  and  a  shabby  jersey  that  left  his  brown  neck 
bare.  He  was  whistling  when  she  lifted  the  bar,  but  he  stopped 
as  the  door  fell  back,  and  gave  Helen  a  quick  and  careless 
look. 

"Can  I  have  a  bit  of  bread?"  he  asked. 

Helen  stared  at  him  without  answering.  She  was  so  unused 
to  people  that  her  mind  had  to  be  summoned  from  a  world  of 
ghosts  before  she  could  hear  and  utter  real  words.  The  boy 
waited  for  her  to  speak,  but,  as  she  did  not,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  turned  away  whistling  his  tune. 

Then  she  understood  that  he  was  going,  and  she  ran  after 
him  quickly  and  touched  his  sleeve.  He  turned  again,  expect- 
ing her  to  speak;  but  she  was  still  dumb. 

"Thought  better  of  it?"   he  said. 

Helen  said  slowly,  "Why  did  you  ask  me  for  bread?" 

"Why?"  He  looked  her  up  and  down.  "To  mend  my 
boots  with,  of  course." 

She  looked  at  his  boots. 

"You  silly  thing,"  grinned  the  boj% 

A  faint  color  came  under  her  skin.  "I'm  sorry  for  being 
stupid.     I  suppose  you're  hungry." 

"As  a  hunter.  But  there's  no  call  to  trouble  you.  I'll  be 
where  I  can  get  bread,  and  meat  too,  in  forty  minutes.  Good- 
by,  child." 

"No,"  said  Helen.  "Please  don't  go.  I'd  like  to  give  you 
some  bread." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  the  boy.  "What  frightened  you?  Did 
you  think  I  was  a  scamp?" 

"I  wasn't  frightened,"  said  Helen. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  mocked  the  boy.  "You  couldn't  get  a 
word  out." 

"I  wasn't  frightened." 

"You  thought  I  was  a  bad  lot.  You  don't  know  I'm  not 
one  now." 

Helen's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  turned  away  quickly. 
"I'll  get  you  your  bread,"  she  said. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    95 

"You  are  a  silly,  aren't  you?"  said  the  boy  as  she  dis- 
appeared. 

Before  long  she  came  back  with  half  a  loaf  in  one  hand, 
and  something  in  the  other  which  she  kept  behind  her  back. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  boy,  taking  the  bit  of  loaf.  "What  else 
have  you  got  there?" 

"It's  something  better  than  bread,"  said  Helen  slowly. 

"Well,  let's  have  a  look  at  it." 

She  took  her  hand  from  behind  her,  and  offered  him  seven 
ears  of  wheat.  They  were  heavy  with  grain,  and  bowed  on 
their  ripe  stems. 

"Is  this  what  you  call  better  than  bread?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  better." 

"Oh,  all  right.    I  sha'n't  eat  it  though— not  all  at  once." 

"No,"  said  Helen,  "keep  it  till  you're  hungry.  The  grains 
go  quite  a  long  way  when  you're  hungry." 

"I'll  eat  one  a  year,"  said  the  boy,  "and  then  they'll  go  so  far 
they'll  outlast  me  my  lifetime." 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  "but  the  bread  will  be  gone  in  forty 
minutes.     And  then  you'll  be  where  you  can  get  meat." 

"You  funny  thing,"  said  the  boy,  puzzled  because  she  never 
smiled. 

"Where  can  you  get  meat?"  she  asked. 

"In  a  boat,  fishing  for  rabbits." 

But  she  took  no  notice  of  the  rabbits.  She  said  eagerly, 
"A  boat?  are  you  going  in  a  boat?" 

"Are  you  a  sailor?" 

"You've  hit  it." 

"You've  seen  the  sea!  you've  been  on  the  sea! — sailors  do 
that  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  said  the  boy,  "we  sail  three  times  round  the 
duckpond  and  come  home  for  tea." 

Helen  hung  her  head.  The  boy  put  his  hand  up  to  his 
mouth  and  watched  her  over  it. 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  "I  must  get  along  to  Pagham." 
He  stuck  the  little  sheaf  of  wheat  through  the  hole  in  his  cap, 
and  it  bobbed  like  a  ruddy-gold  plume  over  his  ear.  Then  he 
felt  in  his  pocket  and  after  some  fumbling  got  hold  of  what 
he  wanted  and  pulled  it  out.  "Here  you  are,  child,"  he  said, 
"and  thank  you  again." 

He  put  his  present  into  her  hand  and  swung  off  whistling. 


96     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

He  turned  once  to  wave  to  her,  and  the  corn  in  his  cap  nodded 
with  its  weight  and  his  light  gait.  She  stood  gazing  till  he 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  she  looked  at  what  he  had  given 
her.     It  was  a  shell. 

She  had  heard  of  shells,  of  course,  but  she  had  never  seen 
one.  Yet  she  knew  this  was  no  English  shell.  It  was  as 
large  as  the  top  of  a  teacup,  but  more  oval  than  round.  Over 
its  surface,  like  pearl,  rippled  waves  of  sea-green  and  sea-blue, 
under  a  luster  that  was  like  golden  moonlight  on  the  ocean. 
She  could  not  define  or  trace  the  waves  of  color;  they  flowed 
in  and  out  of  each  other  with  interchangeable  movement.  One 
half  of  the  outer  rim,  which  was  transparently  thin  and  curled 
like  the  fantastic  edge  of  a  surf  wave,  was  flecked  with  a  faint 
play  of  rose  and  cream  and  silver,  that  melted  imperceptibly, 
into  the  moonlit  sea.  When  she  turned  the  shell  over  she 
found  that  she  could  not  see  its  heart.  The  blue-green  side 
of  the  shell  curled  under  like  a  smooth  billow,  and  then  broke 
into  a  world  of  cav^s,  and  caves  within  caves,  whose  final 
secret  she  could  not  discover.  But  within  and  within  the 
color  grew  deeper  and  deeper,  bottomless  blues  and  unfath- 
omable greens,  shot  with  such  gleams  of  light  as  made  her 
heart  throb,  for  they  were  like  the  gleams  that  shoot  through 
our  dreams,  the  light  that  just  eludes  us  when  we  wake. 

She  went  into  the  mill,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  She 
was  not  conscious  of  moving,  but  she  found  herself  presently 
standing  by  the  grinding  stones,  with  sound  rushing  through 
her  and  white  dust  whirling  round  her.  She  gazed  and  gazed 
into  the  labyrinth  of  the  shell  as  though  she  must  see  to  its 
very  core;  but  she  could  not.  So  she  unfastened  her  blue 
gown  and  laid  the  shell  against  her  young  heart.  It  was  for 
the  first  time  of  so  many  times  that  I  know  not  whether  when, 
twenty  years  later,  she  did  it  for  the  last  time,  they  outnum- 
bered the  silver  hairs  among  her  black  ones.  And  the  silver 
by  then  were  uncountable.  Yet  on  the  day  when  Helen  began 
her  twenty  years  of  lonely  listening — 

(But  having  said  this,  Martin  Pippin  grasped  the  rope  just 
above  Jennifer's  hand,  and  pulled  it  with  such  force  that  the 
swing,  instead  of  swinging  back  and  forth,  as  a  swing  should, 
reeled  sideways  so  that  the  swinger  had  much  ado  to  keep  her 
seat. 

Jennifer:     Heaven  help  me! 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    97 

Martin:  Heaven  help  me!  I  need  its  help  more  sorely 
than  you  do. 

Jennifer:     Oh,  you  should  be  punished,  not  helped! 

Martin:  I  have  been  punished,  and  the  punished  require 
help  more  than  censure,  or  scorn,  or  anger,  or  any  other  form 
of  righteousness.        ^ 

Jennifer:     Who  has  punished  you?    And  for  what? 

Martin:     You,  Mistress  Jennifer.     For  my  bad  story. 

Jennifer:  I  do  not  remember  doing  so.  The  story  is  only 
begun.     I  am  sure  it  v^^ill  be  a  very  good  story. 

Martin  :  Now  you  are  compassionate,  because  I  need  com- 
fort. But  the  truth  is  that,  good  or  bad,  you  care  no  more  for 
my  story.    For  I  saw  a  tear  of  vexation  come  into  your  eye. 

Jennifer:  It  was  not  vexation.  Not  exactly  vexation. 
And  doubtless  Helen  will  have  experiences  which  we  shall  all 
be  glad  to  hear.     But  all  the  same  I  wish — 

Martin:     You  wish? 

Jennifer:  That  she  was  not  going  to  grow  old  in  her 
loneliness.     Because  all  lovers  are  young. 

Martin  :  You  have  spoken  the  most  beautiful  of  all  truths. 
Does  the  grass  grow  high  enough  by  the  swing  for  you  to  pluck 
me  two  blades? 

Jennifer:  I  think  so.  Yes.  What  do  you  want  with 
them? 

Martin:  I  want  but  one  of  them  now.  You  shall  only 
give  me  the  other  if,  at  the  end  of  my  tale,  you  agree  that  its 
lovers  are  as  green  as  this  blade  and  that.) 

On  the  day  {resumed  Martin)  when  Helen  began  her  lonely 
listening  of  heart  and  ears  betwixt  the  seashell  and  the  mill- 
stones of  her  dreams,  there  was  not,  dear  Mistress  Jennifer,  a 
silver  thread  in  her  black  locks  to  vex  you  with.  For  a  girl 
of  seventeen  is  but  a  child.  Yet  old  enough  to  begin  spinning 
the  stuff  of  the  spirit.  .  .  . 

"My  boy!— 

"Oh,  how  strange  it  was,  your  coming  like  that,  so  sud- 
denly. Before  I  opened  the  door  I  stood  there  guessing.  .  .  . 
And  how  could  I  have  guessed  this?  Did  you  guess  too  on  the 
other  side?" 

"No,  not  much.  I  thought  it  might  be  a  cross  old  woman. 
What  did  you  guess?" 


98    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Oh,  such  stupid  things.  Kings  and  knights  and  even 
women.    And  it  was  you!" 

"And  it  was  you!" 

"Suppose  I'd  been  a  cross  old  woman?" 

"Suppose  I'd  been  a  king?" 

"And  you  were  just  my  boy." 

"And  you — my  sulky  girl." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  sulky.  Oh,  didn't  you  understand?  How 
could  I  speak  to  you  ?  I  couldn't  hear  you,  I  couldn't  see  you, 
even !" 

"Can  you  see  me  now?" 

She  was  lying  with  her  cheek  against  his  heart,  and  she 
turned  her  face  suddenly  inwards,  because  she  saw  him  bend 
his  head,  and  the  sweetness  of  his  first  kiss  was  going  to  be 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

"Why  don't  you  look  up,  you  silly  child?  Why  don't  you 
look  at  me,  dear?" 

"How  can  I  yet?  Can  I  ever?  It's  so  hard  looking  in  a 
person's  eyes.  But  I  am  looking  at  you,  I  am,  though  you 
can't  see  me." 

"Then  tell  me  what  color  my  eyes  are." 

"They're  gray-green,  and  your  hair  is  dark  red,  a  sort  of 
chestnut  but  a  little  redder  and  rough  over  your  forehead, 
and  your  nose  is  all  over  freckles  and  very  very  snub — " 

(Martin:     Heaven  help  you.  Mistress  Jennifer! 
Jennifer:     W-w-w-w-why,  Master  Pippin? 
Martin:     Were  you  not  about  to  fall  again? 
Jennifer:     N-n-n-n-no.     I-I-I-I-I — 

Martin:  I  see  you  are  as  firm  as  a  rock.  How  could  I 
have  been  so  deceived?) 

He  shook  her  a  little  In  his  arms,  saying:  "How  rude  you 
are  to  my  nose.     I  wish  you'd  look  up." 

"No,  not  yet  .  .  .  presently.  But  you,  did  you  look  at 
me?" 

"Didn't  you  see  me  look?" 

"When?" 

"As  soon  as  you  opened  the  door." 

"What  did  you  see?" 

"The  loveliest  thing  I'd  ever  seen." 

"I'm  not  really — am  I  ?" 

"I  used  to  dream  about  you  at  night  on  my  watches.     I 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    99 

made  you  up  out  of  bits  of  the  night — white  moonlight,  black 
clouds,  and  stars.  Sometimes  I  would  take  the  last  cloud  of 
sunset  for  your  lips.  And  the  wind,  when  it  was  gentle,  for 
your  voice.  And  the  movements  of  the  sea  for  your  move- 
ments, and  the  rise  and  fall  of  it  for  your  breathing,  and  the 
lap  of  it  against  the  boat  for  your  kisses.  Oh,  child,  look 
up!  .  .  ." 

She  looked  up.  .  .  . 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Helen." 

"I  can't  hear  you." 

"Helen.     Say  it." 

"I'm  trying  to." 

"/  can't  hear  you,  now.  And  I  want  to  hear  your  voice  say 
my  name.  Oh,  my  boy,  do  say  it,  so  that  I  can  remember  it 
when  you're  away." 

"I  can't  say  it,  child.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  your  name?" 

"What  is  yours?" 

"I'm  trying  to  tell  you." 

"Please — please !" 

"I'm  trying  with  all  my  might.     Listen  with  all  yours." 

"I  am  listening.  I  can't  hear  anything.  Yet  I'm  listening 
so  hard  that  it  hurts.  I  want  to  say  your  name  over  and  over 
and  over  to  myself  when  you're  away.  Can't  you  say  it 
louder?" 

"No,  it's  no  good." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  boy?" 

"Oh,  child,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Is  my  bread  sweet  to  you?" 

"The  sweetest  I  ever  ate.  I  ate  it  slowly,  and  took  each 
bit  from  your  hand.     I  kept  one  crust." 

"And  my  corn?" 

"Oh,  your  corn!  that  is  everlasting.  You  have  sown  your 
seed.  I  have  eaten  a  grain,  and  it  bore  its  harvest.  One  by 
one  I  shall  eat  them,  and  every  grain  will  bear  its  full  harvest. 
You  have  replenished  the  unknown  earth  with  fields  of  golden 
corn,  and  set  me  walking  there  for  ever." 

"And  you  have  thrown  golden  light  upon  strange  waters, 
and  set  me  floating  there  for  ever.  Oh,  you  on  my  earth  and 
I  on  your  ocean,  how  shall  we  meet?" 


loo    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Your  corn  is  my  waters,  my  waters  are  your  corn.  They 
move  on  one  wave.  Oh,  child,  we  are  borne  on  it  together, 
for  ever." 

"But  how  you  teased  me!" 

"I  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  and  your  boots  and  your  duckponds." 

"It  was  such  fun.  You  were  so  serious.  It  was  so  easy 
to  tease  you." 

"Why  did  you  put  your  hand  over  your  mouth?" 

"To  keep  myself  from — " 

"Laughing  at  me?" 

"Kissing  you.  You  looked  so  sorry  because  sailors  only 
sail  round  duckponds,  when  you  thought  they  always  sailed 
out  by  the  West  and  home  by  the  East.  You  believed  the 
duckponds." 

"I  didn't  really." 

"For  a  moment!" 

"I  felt  so  stupid." 

"You  blushed." 

"Oh,  did   I?" 

"A  very  little.  Like  the  inside  of  a  shell.  I'd  always  tease 
you  to  make  you  blush  like  that.  Don't  you  ever  smile  or 
laugh,  child?" 

"You  might  teach  me  to.  I  haven't  had  the  sort  of  life 
that  makes  one  smile  and  laugh.  Oh,  but  I  could.  I  could 
smile  and  laugh  for  j^ou  if  you  wished.  I  could  do  anything 
you  wanted.     I  could  be  anything  you  wanted." 

"Shall  I  make  something  of  you?    What  shall  it  be?" 

"I  don't  care,  so  long  as  it  is  yours.  Oh,  make  something 
of  me.  I've  been  lonely  always.  I  don't  want  to  be  any 
more.  I  want  to  be  able  to  come  to  you  when  I  please,  not 
only  because  I  need  so  much  to  come,  but  because  you  need 
me  to  come.  Can  you  make  me  sure  that  you  need  me  ?  When 
no  one  has  ever  needed  you,  how  can  you  believe  .  .  .  ?  Oh, 
no,  no !  don't  look  sorry.  I  do  believe  it.  And  will  you  always 
stand  with  me  here  in  the  loneliness  that  has  been  so  dark? 
Then  it  won't  be  dark  any  more.  Why  do  two  people  make 
light?  One  alone  only  wanders  and  holds  out  her  hand  and 
finds  no  one — nothing.  Sometimes  not  even  herself.  Will 
you  be  with  me  always?" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     loi 

"Always." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  love  you." 

"No,"  said  Helen,  "but  because  I  love  you." 

"Tell  me — were  you  frightened?" 

"Of  you?  when  I  saw  you  at  the  door?" 

"Yes.     Were  you?" 

"Oh,  my  boy." 

"But  didn't  you  think  I  might  be  a  scamp?" 

"I  didn't  think  about  it  at  all.  It  wouldn't  have  made  any 
difference." 

"Then  why  were  you  as  mum  as  a  fish?" 

"Oh,  my  boy." 

"Why?  why?  why? — if  you  weren't  frightened.  Of  course 
you  were  frightened." 

"No,  no,  I  wasn't.  I  told  you  I  wasn't.  Why  don't  you 
believe  me? — Oh,  you're  laughing  at  me  again." 

"You're  blushing  again." 

"It's  so  easy  to  make  me  ashamed  when  I've  been  silly. 
Of  course  you  know  now  why  I  couldn't  speak.  You  know 
what  took  my  words  away.     Didn't  you  know  then?" 

"How  could  I  know?  How  could  I  dream  it  would  be 
as  quick  for  you  as  for  me?" 

"One  can  dream  anything  .  .  .  oh!" 

"What  is  it,  child  ?"     For  she  had  caught  at  her  heart. 

"Dreams  .  .  .  and  not  truth.  Oh,  are  you  here?  Am  I? 
Where  are  you — where  are  you?  Hold  me,  hold  me  fast. 
Don't  let  it  be  just  empty  dreams." 

"Hush,  hush,  my  dear.  Dreams  aren't  empty.  Dreams 
are  as  near  the  truth  as  we  can  come.  What  greater  truth 
can  you  ever  have  than  this?  For  as  men  and  women  dream, 
they  drop  one  by  one  the  veils  between  them  and  the  mys- 
tery. But  when  they  meet  they  are  shrouded  in  the  veils 
again,  and  though  they  long  to  strip  them  off,  they  cannot. 
And  each  sees  of  each  but  dimly  the  truth  which  in  their 
dreams  was  as  clear  as  light.  Oh,  child,  it's  not  our  dreams 
that  are  our  illusions." 

"No,"  she  whispered.  "But  still  it  is  not  enough.  Not 
quite  enough  for  the  beloved  that  they  shall  dream  apart 
and  find  their  truths  apart.  In  life  too  they  must  touch, 
and  find   the  mystery  together.     Though  it  be  only  for  one 


102    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

eternal  instant.     Touch  me   not  only  in   my  dreams,  but  in 

life.     Turn  life  itself  into  the  dream  at  last.     Oh,  hold  me 
fast,  my  boy,  my  boy  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  hush,  child,  I'm  holding  you  .  .  ." 

"You  wept." 

"Oh,  did  you  see?     I  turned  my  head  away." 

"Why  did  you  weep?" 

"Because  you  thought  I  had  misjudged  you." 

"Then  I  misjudged  you." 

"But  I  did  not  weep  for  that." 

"Would  you,  if  I  misjudged  you?" 

"It  would  not  be  so  hard  to  bear." 

"And  you  went  away  with  tears  and  brought  me  the  corn 
of  j'our  mill." 

"And  you  took  it  with  smiles,  and  gave  me  the  shell  of 
your  seas." 

"Your  corn  rustles  through  my  head." 

"Your  shell  whispers  at  my  heart." 

"You  shall  always  hear  it  whispering  there.  It  will  tell 
you  what  I  can  never  tell  you,  or  only  tell  you  in  other 
ways." 

"Of  your  life  on  the  sea?  Of  the  countries  over  the  water? 
Of  storms  and  islands  and  flashing  birds,  and  strange  bright 
flowers?  Of  all  the  lands  and  life  I've  never  seen,  and  dream 
of  all  wrong?  Will  it  tell  me  those  things? — of  your  life 
that  I  don't  know?" 

"Yes,  perhaps.     But  I  could  tell  you  of  that  life." 

"Of  what  other  life  will  it  tell  me?" 

"Of  my  life  that  you  do  know." 

"Is  there  one?" 

"Look  in  your  own  heart." 

"I  am  looking." 

"And  listen." 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  hear?" 

"Oh,  boy,  the  whispering  of  your  shell!" 

"Oh,  child,  the  rustling  of  your  corn !" 

Oh,  maids !  the  grinding  of  the  millstones. 

This  is  only  a  little  part  of  what  she  heard.  But  if  I  told 
you  the  v»^hole  we  should  rise  from  the  story  gray-headed.     For 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     103 

ever}'  day  she  carried  her  boy's  shell  to  the  grinding  stones, 
and  stood  there  while  it  spoke  against  her  heart.  And  at  other 
times  of  the  day  it  lay  in  her  pocket,  while  she  swept  and 
cooked  and  spun,  and  she  saw  shadows  of  her  mill-dreams  in 
the  cobwebs  and  the  rising  steam,  and  heard  echoes  of  them 
in  her  singing  kettle  and  her  singing  wheel.  And  at  night  it 
lay  on  her  pillow  against  her  ear,  and  the  voice  of  the  waters 
went  through  her  sleep. 

So  the  years  slipped  one  by  one,  and  she  grew  from  a  girl 
into  a  young  woman;  and  presently  passed  out  of  her  youth. 
But  her  eyes  and  her  heart  were  still  those  of  a  girl,  for  life 
had  touched  them  with  nothing  but  a  girl's  dream.  And  it  is 
not  time  that  leaves  its  traces  on  the  spirit,  whatever  it  may 
do  to  the  body.  Her  father  meanwhile  grew  harder  and  more 
tyrannical  with  years.  There  was  little  for  him  to  fear  now 
that  any  man  would  come  to  take  her  from  him ;  but  the  habit 
of  the  oppressor  was  on  him,  and  of  the  oppressed  on  her.  And 
when  this  has  been  many  years  established,  it  is  hard  for  either 
to  realize  that,  to  escape,  the  oppressed  has  only  to  open  the 
door  and  go. 

Yet  Helen,  if  she  had  ever  thought  of  escape  into  another 
world  and  life,  would  not  have  desired  it.  For  in  leaving  her 
millstones  she  would  have  lost  a  world  whose  boundaries  she 
had  never  touched,  and  a  life  whose  sweetness  she  had  never 
exhausted.  And  she  would  have  lost  her  clue  to  knowledge  of 
him  who  was  to  her  always  the  boy  in  the  old  jersey  who  had 
knocked  at  her  door  so  many  years  ago. 

Once  he  was  shipwrecked  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  waters  had  sucked  her  under  twice  already,  when 
her  helpless  hands  hit  against  some  floating  substance  on  the 
waves.  She  could  not  have  grasped  it  by  herself,  for  her 
strength  was  gone;  but  a  hand  gripped  her  in  the  darkness, 
and  dragged  her,  almost  insensible,  to  safety.  For  a  long 
while  she  lay  inert  across  the  knees  of  her  rescuer.  Conscious- 
ness was  at  its  very  boundary.  She  knew  that  in  some  dim 
distance  strong  hands  were  chafing  a  wet  and  frozen  body 
.  .  .  but  whose  hands?  .  .  .  whose  body?  .  .  .  Presently  it 
was  lifted  to  the  shelter  of  strong  arms;  and  now  she  was  con- 
scious of  her  own  heart-beats,  but  it  was  like  a  heart  beating 
in  air,  not  in  a  body.  Then  warmth  and  breath  began  to  fall 
like  garments  about  this  bodiless  heart,  and  they  were  indeed 


104    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

not  her  own  warmth  and  breath,  but  these  things  given  to  her 
by  another — the  warmth  was  that  of  his  own  body  where  he 
had  laid  her  cold  hands  and  breast  to  take  what  heat  there  was 
in  him,  and  the  breath  was  of  his  own  lungs,  putting  life  into 
hers  through  their  two  mouths.  .  .  .  She  opened  her  eyes.  It 
was  dark.  The  darkness  she  had  come  out  of  was  bright  beside 
this  pitchy  night,  and  her  struggle  back  to  life  less  painful  than 
the  fierce  labor  of  the  wind  and  waves.  Their  frail  precarious 
craft  was  in  ceaseless  peril.  His  left  arm  held  her  like  a 
vice,  but  for  greater  safety  he  had  bound  a  rope  round  their 
two  bodies  and  the  small  mast  of  their  craft.  With  his  right 
arm  he  clasped  the  mast  low  down,  and  his  right  hand  came 
round  to  grip  her  shaking  knees.  In  this  close  hold  she  lay  a 
long  while  without  speaking.    Then  she  said  faintly: 

"Is  it  my  boy?" 

"Yes,  child.     Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  it.  How  long  have  you  been 
in  danger?" 

"I  don't  know.  Some  hours.  I  thought  you  would  never 
come  to  yourself." 

"I  tried  to  come  to  you.     I  can't  swim." 

"The  sea  brought  you  to  me.  You  were  nearly  drowned. 
You  slipped  me  once.     If  you  had  again — !" 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 

"Jumped  in.     I  couldn't  have  stayed  on  here  without  you." 

"Ah,  but  you  mustn't  ever  do  that — promise,  promise!  For 
then  you'd  lose  me  for  ever.     Promise." 

"I  promise.  But  there's  no  for  ever  of  that  sort.  There's 
no  losing  each  other,  whatever  happens.  You  know  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  do  know.  When  people  love,  they  find  each  other 
for  ever.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  die,  and  I  don't  want  to 
die — yet.  But  if  it  is  to-night,  it  will  be  together.  Will  it  be 
to-night,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear.  The  storm's  breaking  up  over  there, 
but  that's  not  the  only  danger." 

"But  nothing  matters,  nothing  matters  at  all  while  I'm 
with  you."  She  lay  heavily  against  him;  her  eyes  closed,  and 
she  shook  violently. 

"Child,  you're  shuddering,  you're  as  cold  as  ice."  He  put 
his  hand  upon  her  chilly  bosom,  and  hugged  her  more  fiercely 
to  his  own.     With  a  sudden  movement  of  despair  and  anger 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     105 

at  the  little  he  could  do,  he  slipped  his  arms  from  his  jacket, 
and  stripping  open  his  shirt  pulled  her  to  him,  re-fastening  his 
jacket  around  them  both,  tying  it  tightly  about  tTieir  bodies 
by  the  empty  sleeves.  She  felt  his  lips  on  her  hair  and  heard 
him  whisper,  "You're  not  frightened  of  me,  are  you,  child? 
You  never  will  be,  will  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  whispered,  "I  never  have  been." 

"Sleep,  if  you  can,  dear." 

"I'll  try." 

So  closely  was  she  held  by  his  coat  and  his  arms,  so  near 
she  lay  to  his  beloved  heart,  that  she  knew  no  longer  what  part 
of  that  union  was  herself;  they  were  one  body,  and  one  spirit. 
Her  shivering  grew  less,  and  with  her  lips  pressed  to  his  neck 
she  fell  asleep. 

It  was  noon. 

The  hemisphere  of  the  sky  was  an  unbroken  blue  washed 
with  a  silver  glare.  She  could  not  look  up.  The  sea  was 
no  longer  wild,  but  it  was  not  smooth;  it  was  a  dancing  sea, 
and  every  small  wave  rippled  with  crested  rainbows.  A  flight 
of  gulls  wheeled  and  screamed  over  their  heads;  their  move- 
ments were  so  swift  that  the  mid-air  seemed  to  be  filled  with 
visible  lines  described  by  their  flight,  silver  lines  that  gleamed 
and  melted  on  transparent  space  like  curved  lightnings. 

"Oh,  look!  oh,  look!"  cried  Helen. 

He  smiled,  but  he  was  not  watching  the  gulls.  "Yes,  you've 
never  seen  that,  have  you,  child?"  His  eyes  searched  the  dis- 
tance. 

"But  you  aren't  looking.     What  are  you  looking  at?" 

"Nothing.  I  can't  see  what  I'm  looking  for.  But  the  gulls 
might  mean  land,  or  icebergs,  or  a  ship." 

"I  don't  want  land  or  a  ship,  or  even  icebergs,"  said  Helen 
suddenly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  fleeting  look  that  had  been  her 
first  impression  of  him, 

"Why  not?     Why  don't  you?" 

"I'm  so  happy  where  I  am." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  her  boy,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
distance. 

P'or  awhile  she  lay  enjoying  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  watch- 
ing the  gulls  sliding  down  the  unseen  slopes  of  the  air.  Pres- 
ently high  up  she  saw  one  hover  and  pause,  settling  on  nothing- 


io6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

ness  by  the  swift,  almost  imperceptible  beat  of  its  wings.  And 
suddenly  it  dropped  like  a  stone  upon  a  wave,  and  darted  up 
again  so  quickly  that  she  could  not  follow  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"What  is  it  doing?"  she  asked. 

"Fishing,"  said  the  boy.     "It  wanted  its  dinner." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Helen. 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  packet 
wrapped  in  oilskin.  There  was  biscuit  in  it.  He  gave  some 
to  her,  bit  by  bit;  though  it  was  soft  and  dull,  she  was  glad 
of  it.     But  soon  she  drew  away  from  the  hand  that  fed  her. 

"What's  the  mater?"  he  asked. 

"You  must  have  some  too." 

"That's  all  right.     I'm  not  greedy  like  you  birds." 

"I'm  not  a  bird.  And  I'm  not  greedy.  Being  hungry's 
not  being  greedy.     I'd  be  greedy  if  I  ate  while  you're  hun- 

gry." 

"I'm  not  hungry." 

"Then  neither  am  I." 

To  satisfy  her  he  ate  a  biscuit.  Soon  after  she  began  to 
feel  thirst,  but  she  dared  not  ask  for  water.  She  knew  he  had 
none.  He  looked  at  her  lying  pale  in  his  arms,  and  said  with 
a  smile  that  was  not  like  a  real  smile,  "It's  a  pity  about  the 
icebergs."  She  smiled  and  nodded,  and  lay  still  in  the  heat, 
watching  the  gulls,  and  thinking  of  ice.  Some  of  the  birds 
settled  on  the  raft.  One  sat  on  the  mast;  another  hovered  at 
her  knee,  picking  at  crumbs.  They  played  in  the  sun,  rising 
and  falling,  and  turned  in  her  vision  into  a  whirl  of  snow- 
flakes,  enormous  snowflakes.  .  .  .  She  began  to  dream  of  snow, 
and  her  lips  parted  in  the  hope  that  some  might  fall  upon  her 
tongue.  Presently  she  ceased  to  dream  of  snow.  .  .  .  The 
boy  looked  down  at  her  closed  lids,  and  at  her  cheeks,  as  white 
as  the  breasts  of  the  gulls.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  long, 
and  returned  to  his  distances. 

It  was  night  again. 

The  circle  of  the  sea  was  as  smooth  as  silk.  Pale  light  played 
over  it  like  dreams  and  ghosts.  The  sky  was  a  crowded  arc 
of  stars,  millions  of  stars,  she  had  never  seen  or  imagined  so 
many.  They  glittered,  glittered  restlessly,  in  an  ecstasy  that 
caught  her  spirit.     She  too  was  filled  with  millions  of  stars. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     107 

through  her  senses  they  flashed  and  glittered — a  delirium  of 
stars  in  heaven  and  her  heart.  ... 

"My  boy!" 

"Yes,  child." 

"Do  you  see  the  stars?" 

"Yes,  child." 

"Do  you  feel  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  can't  we  die  now?" 

She  felt  him  move  stiffly.  "There's  a  ship!  I'm  certain 
of  it  now — I'm  certain!     Oh,  if  it  were  day!" 

The  stars  went  on  dazzling.  She  did  not  understand  about 
the  ship.  Time  moved  forward,  or  stood  still.  For  her  the 
night  was  timeless.     It  was  eternity. 

But  things  were  happening  outside  in  time  and  space.  By 
what  means  they  had  been  seen  or  had  attracted  attention, 
she  did  not  know.  But  the  floating  dreamlight  and  the  shiv- 
ering starlight  on  the  sea  were  broken  by  a  dark  movement 
on  the  waveless  waters.  A  boat  was  coming.  For  some  time 
there  had  been  shouting  and  calling  in  strange  voices,  one  of 
them  her  boy's.  But  once  again  she  hovered  on  the  dim  verge 
of  consciousness.  She  had  flown  from  the  body  he  was  painfully 
unbinding  from  his  own.  What  he  had  suffered  in  holding  it 
there  so  long  she  never  knew.  From  leagues  away  she  heard 
him  whispering,  "Child,  can  you  help  yourself  a  little?"  And 
now  for  an  instant  her  soul  re-approached  her  body,  and  looked 
at  him  through  the  soft  midnight  of  her  eyes,  and  he  saw  in 
them  such  starlight  as  never  was  in  sky  or  on  sea. 

"Kiss  me,"  said  Helen. 

He  kissed  her. 

With  a  great  effort  she  lifted  herself  and  stood  upright  on 
the  raft,  swaying  a  little  and  holding  by  the  mast.  The  boat 
was  still  a  little  distant. 

"Good-by,  my  boy." 

"Child—!" 

"Don't  jump.  You  promised  not  to.  You  promised.  But 
I  can't  come  with  you  now.     You  must  let  me  go." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  she  was  in  a  fever.  He  made  a 
desperate  clutch  at  her  blue  gown.  But  he  was  not  quick 
enough.  "Keep  your  promise!"  she  cried,  and  disappeared  in 
the  dreamlit  waters;  she  disappeared  like  a  dream,  without  a 


io8     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

sound.     As  she  sank,  she  heard  him  calling  her  by  the  only- 
name  he  knew.  .  .  . 

When  she  was  thirty-five  her  father  died.  Now  she  was 
free  to  go  where  she  pleased.     But  she  did  not  go  anywhere. 

Ever  since,  as  a  child,  she  had  first  tasted  salt  water,  she 
had  longed  to  travel  and  see  other  lands.  What  held  her 
now?  Was  it  that  her  longing  had  been  satisfied?  that  she 
had  a  host  of  memories  of  great  mountains  and  golden  shores, 
of  jungles  and  strange  cities  of  the  coast,  of  islands  lost  in 
seas  of  sapphire  and  emerald?  of  caravans  and  towers  of  ivory? 
of  haunted  caverns  and  deserted  temples?  where,  a  child  al- 
ways, with  her  darling  boy,  she  had  had  such  adventures  as 
would  have  filled  a  hundred  earthly  lives.  They  had  built  huts 
in  uninhabited  places,  or  made  a  twisted  bower  of  strong  green 
creepers,  and  lived  their  primitive  paradisal  life  wanting  noth- 
ing but  each  other;  sometimes,  through  accidents  and  illness, 
they  had  nursed  each  other,  with  such  unwearied  tenderness  that 
death  himself  had  to  withdraw,  defeated  by  love.  Once  on 
a  ship  there  had  been  mutiny,  and  she  alone  stood  by  him 
against  a  throng;  once  savages  had  captured  her,  and  he,  out- 
witting them,  had  rescued  her,  riding  through  leagues  of 
prairie-land  and  forest,  holding  her  before  him  on  the  saddle. 
In  nearly  all  these  adventures  it  was  as  though  they  had  met 
for  the  first  time,  and  were  struck  anew  with  the  dumb  wonder 
of  first  love,  and  the  strange  shy  sweetness  of  wooing  and 
confession.  Yet  they  were  but  playing  above  truth.  For  the 
knowledge  was  always  between  them  that  they  were  bound 
immortally  by  a  love  which,  having  no  end,  seemed  also  to  have 
had  no  beginning.  They  quarreled  sometimes — this  was  play- 
ing too.  She  put,  now  herself,  now  him,  in  the  wrong.  And 
either  reconciliation  was  sweet.  But  it  was  she  who  was  often- 
est  at  fault,  his  forgiveness  was  so  dear  to  her.  And  still, 
this  was  but  playing  at  it.  When  all  these  adventures  and  pre- 
tenses were  done,  they  stood  heart  to  heart,  and  out  of  their 
only  meeting  in  life  built  up  eternal  truth  and  told  each  other. 
They  told  it  inexhaustibly. 

And  so,  when  her  father  left  her  free  to  go,  Helen  lived 
on  still  in  the  mill  of  dreams,  and  kept  her  millstones  grinding. 
Two  years  went  by.  And  her  hard  gray  lonely  life  laid  its 
hand  on  her  hair  and  her  countenance.  Her  father  had  worn 
her  out  before  her  time. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     109 

It  was  only  invisible  grain  in  the  mill  now.  The  peasants 
came  no  longer  with  their  corn.  She  had  enough  to  live  on, 
and  her  long  seclusion  unfitted  her  for  strange  men  in  the  mill, 
and  people  she  must  talk  to.  And  so  long  was  the  habit  of 
the  recluse  on  her,  that  though  her  soul  flew  leagues  her  body 
never  wandered  more  than  a  few  hundred  yards  from  her 
home.  Some  who  had  heard  of  her,  and  had  glimpses  of  her, 
spoke  to  her  when  they  met;  but  they  could  make  no  head- 
way with  this  sweet,  shy,  silent  woman.  Yet  children  and 
boys  and  girls  felt  drawn  to  her.  It  was  the  dream  in  her 
eyes  that  stirred  the  love  in  their  hearts;  though  they  knew 
it  no  more  than  the  soup  in  the  pipkin  knows  why  it  bubbles 
and  boils.  For  it  cannot  see  the  fire.  But  to  them  she  did  not 
seem  old ;  her  strength  and  eagerness  were  still  upon  her,  and 
that  silver  needlework  with  which  time  broiders  all  men  had 
in  her  its  special  beauty,  setting  her  aloof  in  the  unabandoned 
dream  which  the  young  so  often  desert  as  their  youth  deserts 
them.  Those  of  her  age,  seeing  that  unyouthful  gleam  of  her 
hair  combined  with  the  still-youthful  dream  of  her  eyes,  felt 
as  though  they  could  not  touch  her;  for  no  man  can  break 
another's  web,  he  can  only  break  his  own,  and  these  had  torn 
their  films  to  tatters  long  ago,  and  shouldered  their  way 
through  the  smudgy  rents,  and  no  more  walked  where  she 
walked.  But  very  young  people  knew  the  places  she  walked 
in,  and  saw  her  clearly,  for  they  walked  there  too,  though 
they  were  growing  up  and  she  was  growing  old. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year  there  was  a  storm.  It  lasted 
three  days  without  stopping.  Such  fury  of  rain  and  thunder 
she  had  never  heard.  The  gaunt  rooms  of  the  mill  were 
steeped  in  gloom,  except  when  lightning  stared  through  the 
flat  windows  or  split  into  fierce  cracks  on  the  dingy  glass. 
Those  three  days  she  spent  by  candle-light.  Outside  the  world 
seemed  to  lie  under  a  dark  doom. 

On  the  third  morning  she  woke  early.  She  had  had  rest- 
less nights,  but  now  and  then  slept  heavily;  and  out  of  one 
dull  slumber  she  awakened  to  the  certainty  that  something 
strange  had  happened.  The  storm  had  lulled  at  last.  Through 
her  window,  set  high  in  the  wall,  she  could  see  the  dead  light 
of  a  blank  gray  dawn.  She  had  seen  other  eyeless  mornings 
on  her  windowpane;  but  this  was  different,  the  air  in  her  room 
was  dirferent.  Something  unknown  had  been  taken  from  or 
added  to  it.     As  she  lay  there  wondering,  but  not  yet  willing 


no    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

to  discover,  the  flat  light  at  the  window  was  blocked  out.  A 
seagull  beat  against  it  with  its  wings  and  settled  on  the  sill. 

The  flutter  and  the  settling  of  the  bird  overcame  her.  It 
was  as  though  reality  were  more  than  she  could  bear.  The 
birds  of  memory  and  pain  flew  through  her  heart. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  The  gull  did  not 
move.  It  was  broken  and  exhausted  by  the  storm.  And  be- 
yond it  she  looked  down  upon  the  sea. 

Yes,  it  was  true.  The  sea  itself  washed  at  the  walls  of 
the  mill. 

She  did  not  understand  these  gray-green  waters.  She  knew 
them  in  vision,  not  in  reality.  She  cried  out  sharply  and  threw 
the  window  up.  The  draggled  bird  fluttered  in  and  sank  on 
the  floor.  A  sea-wind  blew  in  with  it.  The  bird's  wings  shiv- 
ered on  her  feet,  and  the  wind  on  her  bosom.  She  stared 
over  the  land,  swallowed  up  in  the  sea.  Wreckage  of  all  sorts 
tossed  and  floated  on  it.  Fences  and  broken  gates  and  branches 
of  trees;  and  fragments  of  boats  and  nets  and  bits  of  cork; 
and  grass  and  flowers  and  seaweed — She  thought — what  did 
she  think?     She  thought  she  must  be  dreaming. 

She  felt  like  one  drowning.     Where  could  she  find  a  shore? 

She  hurried  to  the  bed  and  got  her  shell;  its  touch  on  her 
heart  was  her  first  safety.  In  her  nightgown  as  she  was  she 
ran  with  her  naked  feet  through  the  dim  passages  until  she 
stood  beside  the  grinding  stones.  .  .  , 

"Child!  child!  child!" 

"Where  are  you,  my  boy,  where  are  you?" 

"Aren't  you  coming?  Must  I  lose  you  after  all  this? — 
Oh,  come!" 

"But  tell  me  where  you  are!" 

"In  a  few  hours  I  should  have  been  with  you — a  few  hours 
after  many  years." 

"Oh,  boy,  for  pity,  tell  me  where  to  find  you !" 

"You  are  there  waiting  for  me,  aren't  you,  child?  I  know 
you  are — I've  always  known  you  were.  What  would  you 
have  said  to  me  when  you  opened  the  door  in  your  blue 
gown  ? — " 

"Oh,  but  say  only  where  you  are,  my  boy!" 

"Do  you  know  what  I  should  have  said?  I  shouldn't  have 
said  anything.    I  should  have  kissed  you — " 

"Oh,  let  me  come  to  you  and  you  shall  kiss  me.  .  .  ." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     iii 

But  she  listened   in  vain. 

She  went  back  to  her  room.  The  gull  was  still  on  the  floor. 
Its  wing  was  broken.  Her  actions  from  this  moment  were 
mechanical;  she  did  what  she  did  without  will.  First  she 
bound  the  broken  wing,  and  fetched  bread  and  water  for  the 
wounded  bird.  Then  she  dressed  herself  and  went  out  of  the 
mill.     She  had  a  rope  in  her  hands. 

The  water  was  not  all  around  the  mill.  Strips  and  stretches 
of  land  were  still  unflooded,  or  only  thinly  covered.  But  the 
face  of  the  earth  had  been  altered  by  one  of  those  great  inland 
swoops  of  the  sea  that  have  for  centuries  changed  and  re- 
changed  the  point  of  Sussex,  advancing,  receding,  shifting  the 
coast-line,  making  new  shores,  restoring  old  fields,  wedding 
the  soil  with  the  sand. 

Helen  walked  where  she  could.  She  had  no  choice  of  ways. 
She  kept  by  the  edge  of  the  water  and  went  into  no-man's  land. 
A  bank  of  rotting  grasses  and  dry  reeds,  which  the  waves  had 
left  uncovered,  rose  from  the  marshes.  She  mounted  it,  and 
beheld  the  unnatural  sea  on  either  hand.  Here  and  there  in 
the  desolate  water  mounds  of  gray-green  grass  lifted  them- 
selves like  drifting  islands.  Trees  stricken  or  still  in  leaf 
reared  from  the  unfamiliar  element.  Many  of  those  which 
were  leafless  had  put  on  a  strange  greenness,  for  their  boughs 
dripped  with  seaweed.  Over  the  floods,  which  were  littered 
with  such  flotsam  as  she  had  seen  from  her  window,  flew  sea- 
birds  and  land-birds,  crying  and  cheeping.  There  was  no 
other  presence  in  that  desolation  except  her  own. 

And  then  at  last  her  commanded  feet  stood  still,  and  her  will 
came  back  to  her.     For  she  saw  what  she  had  come  to  find. 

He  was  hanging,  as  though  it  had  caught  him  in  a  snare, 
in  a  tree  standing  solitary  in  the  middle  of  a  wide  waste  of 
water.  He  was  hanging  there  like  a  dead  man.  She  could 
distinguish  his  dark  red  hair  and  his  blue  jersey. 

She  paused  to  think  what  to  do.  She  couldn't  swim.  She 
would  not  have  hesitated  to  try;  but  she  wanted  to  save  him. 
She  looked  about,  and  saw  among  the  bits  of  stuff  washing 
against  the  foot  of  the  bank  a  large  dismembered  tree-trunk. 
It  bobbed  back  and  forth  among  the  hollow  reeds.  She  thought 
it  would  serve  her  if  she  had  an  oar.  She  went  in  search  of 
one,  and  found  a  broken  plank  cast  up  among  the  tangled 
growth  of  the  bank.  When  she  had  secured  it  she  fastened 
one  end  of  her  rope  around  the  stump  of  an  old  pollard  squat- 


112    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

ting  on  the  bank  like  a  sturdy  gnome,  and  the  other  end  she 
knotted  around  herself.  Then,  gathering  all  the  middle  of  the 
rope  into  a  coil,  and  using  her  plank  as  a  prop,  she  let  herself 
down  the  bank  and  slid  shuddering  into  the  water.  But  she 
had  her  tree-trunk  now;  with  some  difficulty  she  scrambled  on 
to  it,  and  paddled  her  way  into  the  open  water. 

It  was  not  really  a  great  distance  to  his  tree,  but  to  her  it 
seemed  immeasurable.  She  was  unskillful,  and  her  awkward- 
ness often  put  her  into  danger.  But  her  will  made  her  do  what 
she  otherwise  might  not  have  done;  presently  she  was  under 
the  branches  of  his  tree. 

She  pulled  herself  up  to  a  limb  beside  him  and  looked  at  him. 
And  it  was  not  he. 

It  was  not  her  boy.  It  was  a  man,  middle-aged,  rough  and 
weafherbeaten,  but  pallid  under  his  red-and-tan.  His  hair  was 
grizzled.  And  his  face  was  rough  with  a  growth  of  grizzled 
hair.  His  whole  body  lurched  heavily  and  helplessly  in  a  fork 
of  the  tree,  and  one  arm  hung  limp.  His  eyes  were  half- 
shut. 

But  they  were  not  quite  shut.  He  was  not  unconscious. 
And  under  the  drooping  lids  he  was  watching  her. 

For  a  few  minutes  they  sat  gazing  at  each  other  in  silence. 
She  had  her  breath  to  get.  She  thought  it  would  never  come 
back. 

The  man  spoke  first. 

"Well,  you  made  a  job  of  it,"  he  said. 

She  didn't  answer. 

"But  you  don't  know  much  about  the  water,  do  you?" 

"I've  never  seen  the  sea  till  to-day,"  said  Helen  slowly. 

He  laughed  a  little.  "I  expect  you've  seen  enough  of  it  to- 
day. But  where  do  you  live,  then,  that  you've  never  seen  the 
sea?    In  the  middle  of  the  earth?" 

"No,"  said  Helen,  "I  live  in  a  mill." 

His  eyelids  flickered.  "Do  you?  Yes,  of  course  you  do.  I 
might  have  guessed  it." 

"How  should  you  guess  it?" 

"By  your  blue  dress,"  said  the  man.    Then  he  fainted. 

She  sat  there  miserably,  waiting,  ready  to  prop  him  if  he 
fell.  She  did  not  know  what  else  to  do.  Before  very  long  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Did  I  go  off  again?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     113 

"Yes.  Well,  it's  time  to  be  making  a  move.  I  dare  say  I 
can  now  you're  here.     What's  your  name?" 

"Helen." 

"Well,  Helen,  we'd  better  put  that  rope  to  some  use.  Will 
that  tree  at  the  other  end  hold?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  just  you  untie  yourself  and  we'll  get  aboard  and 
haul  ourselves  home." 

She  unfastened  the  rope  from  her  body,  and  helped  him 
down  to  her  makeshift  boat. 

"You  take  the  paddle,"  he  said.  "My  arm's  damaged.  But 
I  can  pull  on  the  rope  with  the  other." 

"Are  you  sure?    Are  you  all  right?    What's  your  name?" 

"Yes,  I  can  manage.  My  name's  Peter.  This  would  have 
been  a  lark  thirty  years  ago,  wouldn't  it?  It's  rather  a  lark 
now." 

She  nodded  vaguely,  wondering  what  she  would  do  if  he  fell 
off  the  log  in  mid-water. 

"Suppose  you  faint  again?" 

"Don't  look  for  trouble,"  said  the  man.     "Push  off,  now." 

Pulling  and  paddling  they  got  to  the  bank.  He  took  her 
helping-hand  up  it,  and  she  saw  by  his  movements  that  he  was 
very  feeble.  He  leaned  on  her  as  they  went  back  to  the  mill; 
they  walked  without  speaking. 

When  they  reached  the  door  Peter  said,  "It's  twenty  years 
since  I  was  here,  but  I  expect  you  don't  remember." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Helen,  "I  remember." 

"Do  you  now?"  said  Peter.  "It's  funny  you  should  re- 
member." 

And  with  that  he  did  faint  again.  And  this  time  when  he 
recovered  he  was  in  a  fever.     His  staying-power  was  gone. 

She  put  him  to  bed  and  nursed  him.  She  sat  day  and  night 
in  his  room,  doing  by  instinct  what  was  right  and  needful. 
At  first  he  lay  either  unconscious  or  delirious.  She  listened  to 
his  incoherent  speech  in  a  sort  of  agony,  as  though  it  might 
contain  some  clue  to  a  riddle;  and  she  sat  with  her  passionate 
eyes  brooding  on  his  countenance,  as  though  in  that  too  might 
lie  the  answer.  But  if  there  was  one,  neither  his  words  nor 
his  face  revealed  it.  "When  he  wakes,"  she  whispered  to  her- 
self, "he'll  tell  me.  How  can  there  be  barriers  between  us  any 
more?" 

After  three  days  he  came  to  himself.    She  was  sitting  by  the 


114    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

window  preparing  sheep's-wool  for  her  spindle.  She  bent  over 
her  task,  using  the  last  of  the  light,  which  fell  upon  her  head. 
She  did  not  know  that  he  was  conscious,  or  had  been  watching 
her,  until  he  spoke. 

"Your  hair  used  to  be  quite  brown,  didn't  it?"  he  said. 
"Nut-brown." 

She  started  and  turned  to  him,  and  a  faint  flush  stained  her 
cheeks. 

"Ah,  you're  not  pleased,"  said  Peter  with  a  slight  grin. 
"None  of  us  like  getting  old,  do  we?" 

Helen  put  by  the  question.     "You're  yourself  again." 

"Doing  my  best,"  said  he.     "How  long  is  it?" 

"Three  days." 

"As  much  as  that?  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  only  yester- 
day.    Well,  time  passes." 

He  said  no  more,  and  fell  into  a  doze.  Helen  was  as  grate- 
ful for  this  as  she  could  have  been  for  anything  just  then.  She 
couldn't  have  gone  on  talking.  She  was  stunned  with  mis- 
givings. How  could  he  ever  have  thought  her  hair  was 
brown?  Couldn't  he  see  even  now  that  it  had  once  been  as 
black  as  jet?  She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  head,  and  unpinned 
a  coil  of  her  heavy  hair,  and  spread  it  over  her  breast  and  looked 
at  it.  Yes,  the  silver  was  there,  too  much  and  too  soon.  But 
there  was  less  silver  than  black.  It  was^  still  time's  stitchery, 
not  his  fabric.  The  man  who  was  not  her  boy  need  never 
have  seen  her  before  to  know  that  once  her  hair  had  been  black. 
This  was  worse  than  forgetfulness  in  him;  it  was  misremem- 
brance.  She  pulled  at  the  silver  hairs  passionately  as  though 
she  would  pluck  them  out  and  make  him  see  her  as  she  had 
been.  But  soon  she  stopped  her  futile  effort  to  uncount  the 
years.  "I  am  foolish,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  and  coiled 
her  lock  again  and  bound  it  in  its  place.  "There  are  other 
ways  of  making  him  remember.  Presently  when  he  wakes 
again  I  will  talk  to  him.  I  will  remind  him  of  everything, 
yes,  and  I'll  tell  him  everything.  I  won't  be  afraid."  She 
waited  with  longing  his  next  consciousness. 

But  to  her  woe  she  found  herself  defeated.  While  he  slept 
she  was  able,  as  when  he  had  been  delirious  or  absent,  to  create 
the  occasion  and  the  talk  between  them.  She  dropped  all  fears, 
and  in  frank  tenderness  brought  him  her  twenty  years  of 
dreams.  And  in  her  thought  he  accepted  and  answered  them. 
But  when  he  woke  and  spoke  to  her  from  the  bed,  she  knew 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     115 

at  once  that  the  man  who  lay  there  was  not  the  man  with  whom 
she  had  been  speaking.  His  personality  fenced  with  hers;  it 
had  barriers  she  could  not  pass.  She  dared  not  try,  for  dread 
of  his  indifference  or  his  smiles. 

"What  made  you  stick  on  in  this  place?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Helen.    "Places  hold  one,  don't  they?" 

"None  ever  held  me.  I  couldn't  have  been  content  to  stay 
the  best  half  of  my  life  in  one  spot.  But  I  suppose  women  are 
different." 

"You  speak  as  though  all  women  were  the  same." 

"Aren't  they?  I  thought  they  might  be.  I  don't  know 
much  about  them,"  said  Peter,  rubbing  his  chin.  "Rough  as  a 
porcupine,  aren't  I  ?  You  must  have  thought  me  a  savage  when 
you  found  me  stuck  upside-down  in  that  tree  like  a  sloth.  What 
did  you  think?" 

She  looked  at  him,  longing  to  tell  him  what  she  had  thought. 
She  longed  to  tell  him  of  the  boy  she  had  expected  to  find  in 
the  tree.  She  longed  to  tell  him  how  the  finding  had  shocked 
her  by  bringing  home  to  her  her  loss — not  of  the  boy,  but  of 
something  in  that  moment  still  more  precious  to  her.  Be- 
cause (she  longed  to  tell  him)  she  had  so  swiftly  rediscovered 
the  lost  boy,  not  in  his  face  but  in  his  glance,  not  in  his  words 
but  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

But  when  she  looked  at  him  and  saw  him  leaning  on  his 
elbow  waiting  for  her  answer  with  his  half-shut  lids  and  the 
half-smile  on  his  lips,  she  answered  only,  "I  was  thinking  how 
to  get  you  back  to  the  bank." 

"Was  that  it?  Well,  you  managed  it.  I've  never  thanked 
you,  have  I?" 

"Don't!"  said  Helen  with  a  quick  breath,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window. 

He  waited  for  a  few  moments  and  then  said,  "I'm  a  bad 
hand  at  thanking.  I  can't  help  being  a  savage,  you  know.  I'm 
not  fit  for  women's  company.  I  don't  look  so  rough  when  I'm 
trimmed." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  thanked,"  said  Helen  controlling  her 
voice;  and  added  with  a  faint  smile,  "No  one  looks  his  best 
when  he's  ill." 

"Wait  till  I'm  well,"  grinned  Peter,  "and  see  if  I'm  not  fit 
to  walk  you  out  o'  Sundays."  He  lay  back  on  his  pillow 
and  whistled  a  snatch  of  tune.  Her  heart  almost  stopped  beat- 
ing, because  it  was  the  tune  he  had  whistled  at  the  door  twenty 


ii6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

years  ago.  For  a  moment  she  thought  she  could  speak  to  him 
as  she  wished.  But  desire  choked  her  power  to  choose  her 
words;  so  many  rushed  through  her  brain  that  she  had  to  pause, 
seeking  which  of  them  to  utter;  and  that  long  pause,  in  which 
she  really  seemed  to  have  uttered  them  all  aloud,  checked  the 
impulse.  But  surely  he  had  heard  her?  No;  for  she  had  not 
spoken  yet.  And  before  she  could  make  the  effort  he  had 
stopped  whistling,  and  when  she  looked  at  him  to  speak,  he 
was  fumbling  restlessly  about  his  pillow. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Something  I  had — where's  my  clothes?" 

She  brought  them  to  him,  and  he  searched  them  till  he  had 
found  among  them  a  small  metal  box  which  he  thrust  under 
the  pillow;  and  then  he  lay  back,  as  though  too  tired  to  notice 
her.     So  her  impulse  died  in  her,  unacted  on. 

And  during  the  next  four  days  it  was  always  so.  A  dozen 
times  in  their  talks  she  tried  to  come  near  him,  and  could  not. 
Was  it  because  he  would  not  let  her?  or  because  the  thing  she 
wished  to  find  in  him  was  not  really  there?  Sometimes  by  his 
manner  only,  and  sometimes  by  his  words,  he  baffled  her  when 
she  attempted  to  approach  him — and  the  attempt  had  been  so 
painful  to  conceive,  and  its  still-birth  was  such  agony  to  her. 
He  would  talk  frequently  of  the  time  when  he  would  be  mak- 
ing tracks  again. 

"Where  to?"  asked  Helen. 

"I  leave  it  to  chance.  I  always  have.  I've  never  made 
plans.  Or  very  seldom.  And  I'm  not  often  twice  in  the  same 
place.  You  look  tired.  I'm  sorry  to  be  a  bother  to  you.  But 
it'll  be  for  the  last  time,  most  likely.     Go  and  lie  down." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  Helen  under  her  breath.  And  in 
her  thoughts  she  was  crying,  "The  last  time?  Then  it  must 
be  soon,  soon!     I'll  make  you  listen  to  me  now!" 

"I  want  to  sleep,"  said  Peter. 

She  left  the  room.  Tears  of  helplessness  and  misery  filled 
her  eyes.  She  was  almost  angry  with  him,  but  more  angry  with 
herself;  but  her  self-anger  was  mixed  with  shame.  She  was 
ashamed  that  he  made  her  feel  so  much,  while  he  felt  nothing. 
Did  he  feel  nothing? 

"It's  my  stupidity  that  keeps  us  apart,"  she  whispered.  "I 
will  break  through  it!"  As  quickly  as  she  had  left  him  she  re- 
turned, and  stood  by  the  bed.  He  was  lying  with  his  hand 
pressed  over  his  eyes.     When  he  was  conscious  of  her  being 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     117 

there,  his  hand  fell,  and  his  keen  eyes  shot  into  hers.  His 
brows  contracted. 

"You  nuisance,"  he  muttered,  and  hid  his  eyes  again.  She 
turned  and  left  him.  When  she  got  outside  the  door  she 
leaned  against  it  and  shook  from  head  to  foot.  She  hovered 
on  die  brink  of  her  delusions  and  felt  as  though  she  would  soon 
crasn  into  a  precipice.  She  longed  for  him  to  go  before  she 
fell.  Yes,  she  began  to  long  for  the  time  when  he  should  go, 
and  end  this  pain,  and  leave  her  to  the  old  strange  life  that  had 
been  so  sweet.     His  living  presence  killed  it. 

After  that  third  day  she  had  had  no  more  fears  for  his  safety, 
and  he  was  strong  and  rallied  quickly.  The  gull  too  was  saved. 
He  saved  it.  It  had  drooped  and  sickened  with  her.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  On  the  fourth  day  as  he  was  so 
much  better,  she  brought  it  to  him.  He  reset  its  w^ng  and  kept 
it  by  him,  making  it  his  patient  and  his  playfellow.  It  thrived 
at  once  and  grew  tame  to  his  hand.  He  fondled  and  talked 
to  it  like  a  lover.  She  would  watch  him  silently  with  her 
smoldering  eyes  as  he  fed  and  caressed  the  bird,  and  jabbered  to 
it  in  scraps  of  a  dozen  foreign  tongues.  His  tenderness  smote 
her  heart. 

"You're  not  very  fond  of  birds,"  he  said  to  her  once,  when 
she  had  been  sitting  in  one  of  her  silences  while  he  played  with 
his  pet. 

The  words,  question  or  statement,  filled  her  with  anger. 
She  would  not  trust  herself  to  protest  or  deny.  "I  don't  know 
much  about  them,"  she  said. 

"That's  a  pity,"  said  Peter  coolly.  "The  more  you  know 
'em  the  more  you  have  to  love  'em.  Yet  you  could  love  them 
for  all  sorts  of  things  without  knowing  them,  I'd  have 
thought." 

She  said  nothing. 

"For  their  beauty,  now.  That's  worth  loving.  Look  at  this 
one — you're  a  beauty  all  right,  aren't  you,  my  pretty?  Not 
many  girls  to  match  you."  He  paused,  and  ran  his  finger  down 
the  bird's  throat  and  breast.  "Perhaps  you  don't  think  she's 
beautiful,"  he  said  to  Helen. 

"Yes,  she's  beautiful,"  said  Helen,  with  a  difficulty  that 
sounded  like  reluctance. 

"Ah,  you  don't  think  so.  You  ought  to  see  her  flying.  You 
shall  some  day.  When  her  hurt's  mended  she'll  fly — I'll  let 
her  go." 


Ii8    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Perhaps  she  won't  go,"  said  Helen. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will.  How  can  she  stop  in  a  place  like  this? 
This  is  no  air  for  her — she  must  fly  in  her  own." 

"You'll  be  sorry  to  see  her  go,"  said  Helen. 

"To  see  her  free?  No,  not  a  bit.  I  want  her  to  fly.  Why 
should  I  keep  her?  I'd  not  let  her  keep  me.  I'd  hate  her  for 
it.    Why  should  I  make  her  hate  me?" 

"Perhaps  she  wouldn't,"  said  Helen,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  I  expect  she  would.  Ungrateful  little  beggar.  I've 
saved  her  life,  and  she  ought  to  know  she  belongs  to  me.  So 
she  might  stay  out  of  gratitude.  But  she'd  come  to  hate  me 
for  it,  all  the  same.  Not  at  first;  after  a  bit.  Because  we 
change.     Bound  to,  aren't  we?" 

"Perhaps." 

"I  know  I  do.  We  can  none  of  us  stay  what  we  were.  You 
haven't  either." 

"You  haven't  much  to  go  by,"  said  Helen. 

"Seven  minutes  at  the  door,  wasn't  it?  This  time  it's  been 
seven  days." 

"Yes." 

"It's  a  long  time  for  me,"  said  Peter. 

"It's  not  much  out  of  a  lifetime." 

"No.    But  suppose  it  were  more  than  seven  days?" 

Helen  looked  at  him  and  said  slowly,  "It  will  be,  won't  it? 
You  won't  be  able  to  go  to-morrow." 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "not  to-morrow,  or  next  day  perhaps. 
Perhaps  I  won't  be  able  to  go  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

This  time  Helen  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing. 

Peter  stroked  his  bird  and  whistled  his  tune  and  stopped 
abruptly  and  said,  "Will  you  marry  me,  Helen?" 

"I'd  rather  die,"  said  Helen. 

And  she  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

("Oh,  the  green  grass!"  chuckled  Martin  like  a  bird. 

"Nobody  asked  you  to  begin  a  song.  Master  Pippin,"  quav- 
ered Jennifer. 

"It  was  not  the  beginning  of  a  song.  Mistress  Jennifer.  It 
was  the  epilogue  of  a  story." 

"But  the  epilogue  comes  at  the  end  of  a  story,"  said  Jen- 
nifer. 

"And  hasn't  my  story  come  to  its  end  ?"  said  Martin. 

Joscelyn:     Ridiculous!  oh,  dear!  there's  no  bearing  with 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     119 

you.  How  can  this  be  the  end?  How  can  it  be,  with  him  on 
one  side  of  the  door  and  her  on  the  other?" 

Joyce:  And  her  heart's  breaking — you  must  make  an  end 
of  that. 

Jennifer:    And  you  must  tell  us  the  end  of  the  shell. 

Jessica:    And  of  the  millstones. 

Jane:    What  did  he  have  in  his  box? 

"Please,"  said  little  Joan,  "tell  us  whether  she  ever  found 
her  boy  again — oh,  please  tell  us  the  end  of  her  dreams." 

"Do  these  things  matter?"  said  Martin.  "Hasn't  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him?" 

"But  she  said  no,"  said  Jennifer  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Did  she?"  said  Martin.    "Who  said  so?" 

"Master  Pippin,"  said  Joscelyn,  and  her  voice  shook  with 
the  agitation  of  her  anger,  "tell  us  immediately  the  things  we 
want  to  know !" 

"When,  I  wonder,"  said  Martin,  "will  women  cease  to  want 
to  know  little  things  more  than  big  ones?  However,  I  suppose 
they  must  be  indulged  in  little  things,  lest — " 

"Lest?"  said  little  Joan. 

"There  is  such  a  thing,"  said  Martin,  "as  playing  for 
safety.") 

Well,  then,  my  dear  maids,  when  Helen  ran  out  of  his  room 
she  went  to  her  own,  and  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and 
sobbed  without  weeping.  Because  everything  in  her  life  seemed 
to  have  been  taken  away  from  her.  She  lay  there  for  a  long 
time,  and  when  she  moved  at  last  her  head  was  so  heavy  that 
she  took  the  pins  from  her  hair  to  relieve  herself  of  its  weight. 
But  still  the  pain  weighed  on  her  forehead,  which  burned  on 
her  cold  fingers  when  she  pressed  them  over  her  eyes,  trying  to 
think  and  find  some  gleam  of  hope  among  her  despairing 
thoughts.  And  then  she  remembered  that  one  thing  at  least 
was  left  her — her  shell.  During  his  illness  she  had  never  car- 
ried it  to  the  millstones.  It  was  as  though  his  being  there  had 
been  the  only  answer  to  her  daily  dreams,  an  answer  that  had 
failed  them  all  the  time.  But  now  in  spite  of  him  she  would 
try  to  find  the  old  answers  again.  So  she  went  once  more  to 
the  millstones  with  her  shell.  And  when  she  got  there  she 
held  it  so  tightly  to  her  heart  that  it  marked  her  skin. 

And  the  millstones  had  nothing  to  say.  For  the  first  time 
they  refused  to  grind  her  corn. 


I20    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Then  Helen  knew  that  she  really  had  nothing  left,  and  that 
the  home-coming  of  the  man  had  robbed  her  of  her  boy  and  of 
the  child  she  had  been.  Nothing  was  left  but  the  man  and 
woman  who  had  lost  their  3'outh.  And  the  man  had  nothing 
to  give  the  woman.  Nothing  but  gratitude  and  disillusion. 
And  now  a  still  bitterer  thought  came  to  her — the  thought  that 
the  boy  had  had  nothing  to  give  the  girl.  For  tv^'enty  years 
ft  had  been  the  girl's  illusion.  The  storms  in  her  heart  broke 
out.  She  put  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept  like  wild  rain  on 
the  sea.  She  wept  so  violently  that  between  her  passion  and 
the  speechless  grinding  of  the  stones  she  did  not  hear  him  com- 
ing. She  only  knew  he  was  there  when  he  put  his  arm  round 
her. 

"What  is  it,  you  silly  thing?"  said  Peter. 

She  looked  up  at  him  through  her  hair  that  fell  like  a  girl's 
in  soft  masses  on  either  side  of  her  face.  There  was  a  change 
in  him,  but  she  didn't  know  then  what  it  was.  He  had  got  into 
his  clothes  and  made  himself  kempt.  His  beard  was  no  longer 
rough,  though  his  hair  was  still  unruly  across  his  forehead, 
and  under  it  his  gray-green  eyes  looked,  half-anxious,  half- 
smiling,  into  hers.  His  face  was  rather  pale,  and  he  was  a  little 
unsteady  in  his  weakness.  But  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  the 
only  thing  she  saw.     It  unlocked  her  speech  at  last. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  come  back?"  she  cried.  "Why  did  you 
come  back?  If  you  had  never  come  I  should  have  kept  my 
dream  to  the  end  of  my  life.  But  now  even  when  you  go  I 
shall  never  get  it  again.  You  have  destroyed  what  was  not 
there." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  still  keeping  his  arm  round 
her.  Then  he  said,  "Look  what's  here."  And  he  opened  his 
hand  and  showed  her  his  metal  box  without  its  lid ;  in  it  were 
the  mummies  of  seven  ears  of  corn.  Some  were  only  husks, 
but  some  had  grain  in  them  still. 

She  stared  at  them  through  her  tears,  and  drew  from  her 
breast  her  hand  with  the  shell  in  it.  Suddenly  her  mouth 
quivered  and  she  cried  passionately,  "What's  the  use?"  And 
she  snatched  the  old  corn  from  him  and  flung  it  to  the  mill- 
stones with  her  shell.  And  the  millstones  ground  them  to 
eternal  atoms.  .  .  . 

"My  boy!  my  boy!  it  was  you  over  there  in  the  tree!" 
"Oh,  child,  you  came  at  last  in  your  blue  gown!" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     121 

"Why  didn't  you  call  to  me?" 

"I'd  no  breath.  I  was  spent.  And  I  knew  you'd  seen  me 
and  would  do  your  best." 

"I'll  never  forget  that  sight  of  you  in  the  tree,  with  your  old 
jersey  and  your  hair  as  red  as  ever." 

"I  shall  always  see  your  free  young  figure  standing  on  the 
high  bank  against  the  sky." 

"Oh,  I  was  desperate." 

"I  wondered  what  you'd  do.    I  knew  you'd  do  something." 

"I  thought  I'd  never  get  across  the  water." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  thought  as  I  saw  you  coming  so 
bravely  and  so  badly?  I  thought,  I'll  teach  her  to  swim  one 
day.    Shall  I,  child?" 

"I  can't  swim  without  you,  my  boy,"  she  whispered. 

"But  you  pretended  not  to  know  me!" 
"I  couldn't  help  it,  it  was  such  fun." 
"How  could  you  make  fun  of  me  then?" 
"I  alwaj's  shall,  you  know." 
"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "do,  always." 

"What  did  you  think  when  you  saw  me  in  the  tree?  What 
did  you  see  when  you  got  there?     Not  what  you  expected." 

"No.  I  saw  twenty  years  come  flying  upon  me,  twenty  years 
I'd  forgotten  all  about.  Because  for  me  it  has  always  been 
twenty  years  ago." 

"And  you  expected  to  see  a  boy,  and  you  saw  a  grizzled 

_  )i 
man. 

"No,"  said  Helen,  her  eyes  shining  with  tears,  "I  expected 
to  see  a  boy,  and  I  saw  a  gray-haired  woman.  I've  seen  her 
ever  since." 

"I've  only  seen  her  once,"  said  Peter.  "I  saw  her  rise  up 
from  the  water  and  sit  in  my  tree.  And  when  she  spoke  and 
looked  at  me,  it  was  a  child."  He  put  his  hand  over  her  wet 
eyes.     "You  must  stop  seeing  her,  child,"  he  said. 

"When  I  told  you  my  name,  were  you  disappointed  ?" 
"No.     It's  the  loveliest  name  in  the  world." 
"You  said  it  at  once." 

"I  had  to.  I'd  wanted  to  say  it  for  twenty  years.  But  I 
sha'n't  say  it  often,  Helen." 


'Won't  you 


122    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"No,  child." 

"Now  and  then,  for  a  treat?"  she  looked  up  at  him  half-shy, 

half-merry. 

"Oh,  you  can  smile,  can  you?" 

"You  were  to  teach  me  that  too." 

"Yes,  I've  a  lot  to  teach  you,  haven't  I? — I've  yet  to  teach 
you  to  say  my  name." 

"Have  you?" 

"You've  never  said  it  once." 

"I've  said  it  a  thousand  times." 

"You've  never  let  me  hear  you." 

"Haven't  I?" 

"Let  me  hear  you!" 

"Peter." 

"Say  it  again!" 

"Peter!    Peter!    Peter!" 

"Again!" 

"My  boy!"  .  .  . 

"When  we  got  back  to  the  mill-door  the  last  of  the  twenty 
years,  that  had  been  melting  faster  and  faster,  melted  away  for 
ever.  And  you  and  I  were  standing  there  as  we'd  stood  then ; 
and  I  wanted  to  kiss  your  mouth  as  I'd  wanted  to  then." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you? — both  times!" 

"Shall  I  now,  for  both  times?" 

"Oh! — oh,  that's  for  a  hundred  times." 

"Think  of  all  the  times  I've  wanted  to,  and  been  without 
you." 

"You've  never  been  without  me." 

"I  know  that.    How  often  I  came  to  the  mill." 

"Did  you  come  to  the  mill?" 

"As  often  as  I  ate  your  grain.     Didn't  you  Jcnow?" 

"I  know  how  often  your  sea  brought  me  to  you." 

"Did  it?" 

"And,  oh,  my  boy!  at  last  the  sea  brought  you  to  me." 

"And  the  mill,"  he  said.     "Where  has  that  brought  us?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  you'd  die." 

"I  couldn't  have  died  so  close  on  finding  you.  I  was  fight- 
{ng  the  demons  all  the  time — fighting  my  v/ay  through  to  you. 
And  at  last  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  you  again,  your  black 
hair  edged  with  light  against  the  window." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     123 

"My  black  hair?  you  mean  my  brown  hair,  don't  you?" 
"Oh,  weren't  you  cross!     I  loved  you  for  being  cross." 
"I  wasn't  cross.     Why  will  you  keep  on  saying  I'm  things 
I'm  not?" 

"You  were  so  cross  that  you  pretended  our  twenty  years 
were  sixty." 

"I  never  said  anything  about  twenty  years,  or  sixty." 
"You  did,  though.  Sixty!  why,  in  sixty  years  we'd  have  been 
very  nearly  old.  So  to  punish  you  I  pretended  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  I  saw  you  take  your  hair  down.  It  was  so  beautiful. 
You've  seen  the  threads  spiders  spin  on  blackened  furze  that 
gypsies  have  set  fire  to?  Your  hair  was  like  that.  You  were 
angry  with  those  lovely  lines  of  silver,  and  you  wanted  to  get 
rid  of  them.  I  nearly  called  to  you  to  stop  hurting  what  I 
loved  so  much,  but  you  stopped  of  yourself,  as  though  you  had 
heard  me  before  I  called." 

"I  was  ashamed  of  myself,"  whispered  Helen.  "I  was 
ashamed  of  trying  to  be  again  what  I  was  the  only  other  time 
you  saw  me." 

"You've  never  stopped  being  that,  child,"  said  Peter. 

"You  knew,  didn't  you,  why  it  was  I  had  stayed  on  at  the 
mill?  You  knew  what  it  was  that  held  me,  and  why  I  could 
never  leave  it?" 

"Yes,  I  knew.  It  held  you  because  it  held  me  too.  I  won- 
dered if  you'd  tell  me  that." 

"I  longed  to,  but  I  couldn't.  I've  never  been  able  to  tell 
you  things.    And  I  never  shall." 

"Oh,  child,  don't  look  so  troubled.  You've  always  told  me 
things  and  always  will.  Do  you  think  it's  with  our  tongues  we 
tell  each  other  things?  What  can  words  ever  tell?  They 
only  circle  round  the  truth  like  birds  flying  in  the  sun.  The 
light  bathes  their  flight,  yet  they  are  millions  of  miles  away 
from  the  light  they  fly  in.  We  listen  to  each  other's  words, 
but  we  watch  each  other's  eyes." 

"Some  people  half-shut  their  eyes,  Peter." 

"Some  people,  Helen,  can't  shut  their  eyes  at  all.  Your 
eyes  will  never  stop  telling  me  things.  And  the  strangest  thing 
about  them  is  that  looking  into  them  is  like  being  able  to  see  in 
the  dark.  They  are  darkness,  not  light.  And  in  darkness 
dreams  arc  born.  When  I  look  into  your  eyes  I  go  into  your 
dream." 


124    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"I  shall  never  shut  my  eyes  again,"  she  whispered.  "I  will 
keep  you  in  my  dream  for  ever." 

"Women  aren't  all  the  same,  Peter." 

"Aren't  they?" 

"And  yet — they  are." 

"Well,  I  give  it  up." 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"No.  I  told  you  the  truth  that  time.  I've  not  had  very  much 
to  do  with  women." 

"Then  I've  something  to  teach  you,  Peter." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  can  prove,"  said  Peter.  "One 
wo^an  by  herself  can't  prove  a  difference." 

"Can't  she?"  said  Helen;  and  laughed  and  cried  at  once. 

"But  why  did  you  call  me  a  nuisance?" 

"You  were  one — you  are  one.  You  leave  a  man  no  peace — 
you're  like  the  sea.    You're  full  of  storms,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Not  only  storms." 

"I  know.  But  the  sea  wouldn't  be  the  sea  without  her 
storms.  They're  one  of  her  ways  of  holding  us,  too.  And 
there  are  more  storms  in  her  than  ever  break.  I  see  them  in 
you,  big  ones  and  little  ones,  brooding.  Then  you're  a — 
nuisance.    You  always  will  be,  won't  you?" 

"Not  to  wreck  you." 

"You  won't  do  that.  Or  if  you  do — I  can  survive  ship- 
wreck." 

"I  know." 

"How  do  you  know?  I  nearly  gave  up  once,  but  the  thought 
of  you  stopped  me.  I  wanted  to  come  back — I'd  always  meant 
to.     So  I  held  on." 

"I  know." 

"How  do  j'ou  know?    I  never  told  you,  did  I?" 

"Oh,  Peter,  the  things  we  have  to  tell  each  other.  The 
times  you  thought  you  were  alone — the  times  I  thought  T  was! 
You've  had  a  life  you  never  dreamed  of — and  I  another  life 
that  was  not  in  my  dreams." 

"You've  saved  me  from  death  more  than  once,"  said  Peter. 

"You've  done  more  than  that,"  said  Helen,  "you've  given 
me  the  only  life  I've  had.  But  a  thing  doesn't  belong  to  you 
because  you've  saved  its  life  or  given  it  life.  It  only  belongs 
to  you  because  you  love  it.  I  know  you  belong  to  me.  But 
you  only  know  if  I  belong  to  you." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     125 

"That's  not  true  now.  You  do  know.  And  I  know." 
"Yes;  and  we  know  that  as  that  belonging  has  nothing  to 
do  with  death,  it  can't  have  anything  either  to  do  with  the  sav- 
ing or  even  the  giving  of  life.  So  you  must  never  thank  me, 
or  I  you.  There  are  no  thanks  in  love.  And  that  was  why  I 
couldn't  bear  your  asking  roe  to  marry  you  to-day.  I  thought 
you  were  thanking  me." 

"When  you  played  with  the  seagull  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"How  you  loved  it!" 

"Yes." 

"I  looked  to  see  how  you  felt  when  you  loved  a  thing.  I 
wanted  so  much  to  be  the  seagull  in  your  hands." 

"When  I  touched  it  I  was  touching  you." 

She  put  his  hand  to  her  breast  and  whispered,  "I  love 
birds." 

He  smiled.  "I  knew  you  loved  them;  and  best  free.  All 
birds  must  fly  in  their  own  air." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  their  freedom  only  means  their  power 
to  choose  what  air  they'll  fly  in.     And  every  choice  is  a  cage 


too." 


"I  shall  leave  the  door  open,  child." 
"I  shall  never  fly  out,"  said  Helen. 

"You  talked  of  going  away." 

"Yes.     Dut  not  from  you." 

"Am  I  to  go  with  you  always,  following  chance  and  mak- 
ing no  plans?" 

"Will  you  ?  You  are  the  only  plan  I  ever  made.  Will  you 
leave  everything  else  but  me  to  chance?  Perhaps  it  will  lead 
us  all  over  the  earth ;  and  perhaps  after  all  we  shall  not  go  very 
far.     But  I  never  could  see  ahead,  except  one  thing." 

"What  was  it?" 

"The  mill-door  and  you  in  your  old  blue  gown.  And  for 
seven  days  I've  stopped  seeing  that.  I  haven't  it  to  steer  by. 
Will  you  chance  it?" 

"Must  you  be  playing  with  meanings  even  in  dreams?  Don't 
you  know — don't  you  know  that  for  a  woman  who  loves,  and 
is  not  sure  that  she  is  loved,  her  days  and  nights  are  all  chances, 
every  minute  she  lives  is  a  chance?  It  might  be  ...  it  might 
not  be  .  .  .  oh,  those  ghosts  of  joy  and  pain!  they  are  almost 


126    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

too  much  to  bear.  For  the  joy  isn't  pure  joy,  or  the  pain  pure 
pain,  and  she  cannot  come  to  rest  in  either  of  them.  Some- 
times the  joy  is  nearly  as  great  as  though  she  knew;  yet  at 
the  instant  she  tries  to  take  it,  it  looks  at  her  with  the  eyes  of 
doubt,  and  she  trembles,  and  dare  not  take  it  yet.  And  some- 
times the  pain  is  all  but  the  death  she  foresees;  yet  even  as  she 
submits  to  it,  it  lays  upon  her  heart  the  finger  of  hope.  And 
then  she  trembles  again,  because  she  need  not  take  it  yet. 
Those  are  her  chances,  Peter.  But  when  she  knows  that  her 
beloved  is  her  lover,  life  may  do  what  it  will  with  her;  but 
she  is  beyond  its  chances  for  ever." 

"Your  corn!  you  kept  my  corn!" 

"Till  it  should  bear.  And  your  shell  there — you've  kept  my 
shell." 

"Till  it  should  speak.  And  now — oh,  see  these  things  that 
have  held  our  dreams  for  twenty  years!  The  life  is  threshed 
from  them  for  ever — they  are  only  husks.  They  can  hold  our 
dreams  no  more.  Oh,  I  can't  go  on  dreaming  by  myself,  I 
can't,  it's  no  use.  I  thought  my  heart  had  learned  to  bear  its 
dream  alone,  but  the  time  comes  when  love  in  its  beauty  is  too 
near  to  pain.  There  is  more  love  than  the  single  heart  can 
bear.     Good-by,  my  boy — good-by!" 

"Helen!  don't  suffer  so!  oh,  child,  what  are  you  doing? — " 

"Letting  my  dear  dreams  go  .  .  .  it's  no  use,  Peter  .  .  ." 

The  millstones  took  them  and  crushed  them. 

She  uttered  a  sharp  cry.  .  .  . 

His  arm  tightened  round  her.  "What  is  it,  child?"  she 
heard  him  say. 

She  looked  at  him  bewildered,  and  saw  that  he  too  was  dazed. 
She  looked  into  the  gray-green  eyes  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  She 
said  in  a  voice  of  wonder,  "Oh,  my  boy!"  as  he  felt  her  soft 
hair. 

"Such  a  fuss  about  an  empty  shell  and  a  bit  of  dead  wheat." 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  jersey. 

"You  are  a  silly,  aren't  you?"  said  Peter.  "I  wish  you'd 
look  up." 

Helen  looked  up,  and  they  kissed  each  other  for  the  first 
time. 

I  defy  you  now.  Mistress  Jennifer,  to  prove  that  your  grass- 
blade  is  greener  than  mine. 


THIRD  INTERLUDE 

THE  girls  now  turned  their  attention  to  their  neglected 
apples,  varying  this  more  serious  business  with  com- 
ments on  the  story  that  had  just  been  related. 

Jessica  :  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  Jane,  what  you  make  of 
this  matter. 

Jane:  Indeed,  Jessica,  it  is  difficult  to  make  anything  at  all 
of  matter  so  bewildering.  For  who  could  have  divined  reality 
to  be  the  illusion  and  dreams  the  truth?  so  that  by  the  light  of 
their  dreams  the  lovers  in  this  tale  mistook  each  other  for  that 
which  they  were  not. 

Martin:  Who  indeed,  Mistress  Jane,  save  students  of 
human  nature  like  yourselves? — who  have  doubtless  long  ago 
observed  how  men  and  women  begin  by  filling  a  dim  dream 
with  a  golden  thing,  such  as  youth,  and  end  by  putting  a  shin- 
ing dream  into  a  gray  thing,  such  as  age.  And  in  the  end  it 
is  all  one,  and  lovers  will  see  to  the  last  in  each  other  that 
which  they  loved  at  the  first,  since  things  are  only  what  we 
dream  them  to  be,  as  you  have  of  course  also  observed. 

JoscELYN :  We  have  observed  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  if 
we  dreamed  at  all  we  would  dream  of  things  exactly  as  they 
are,  and  would  never  dream  of  mistaking  age  for  youth.  But 
we  do  not  dream.    Women  are  not  given  to  dreams. 

Martin  :  They  are  the  fortunate  sex.  Men  are  such  in- 
curable dreamers  that  they  even  dream  women  to  be  worse  preys 
of  the  delusive  habit  than  themselves.  But  I  trust  you  found 
my  story  sufficiently  wide-awake  to  keep  you  so. 

Joscelyn:  It  did  not  make  me  yawn.  Is  this  mill  still  to 
be  found  on  the  Sidlesham  marshes? 

Martin:  It  is  where  it  was.  But  what  sort  of  gold  it 
grinds  now,  whether  corn  or  dreams,  or  nothing,  I  cannot  say. 
Yet  such  is  the  power  of  what  has  been  that  I  think,  were  the 
stones  set  in  motion,  any  right  listener  might  hear  what  Helen 
and  Peter  once  heard,  and  even  more;  for  they  would  hear  the 
tale  of  those  lovers'  journeys  over  the  changing  waters,  and 
their  return  time  and  again  to  the  unchanging  plot  of  earth 
that  kept  their  secrets.     Until  in  the  end  they  were  together  de- 

127 


128    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

livered  up  to  the  millstones  which  thresh  the  immortal  grain 
from  its  mortal  husk.  But  this  was  after  long  years  of  glad- 
ness and  a  life  kept  young  by  the  child  which  each  was  always 
re-discovering  in  the  other's  heart. 

Jennifer:  Oh,  I  am  glad  they  were  glad.  Do  you  know,  I 
had  begun  to  think  they  would  not  be. 

Jessica:  It  was  exactly  so  with  me.  For  suppose  Peter 
had  never  returned,  or  when  he  did  she  had  found  him  dead  in 
the  tree? 

Jane:  And  even  after  he  returned  and  recovered,  how 
nearly  they  were  removed  from  ever  understanding  each  other! 

Joan  :  Oh,  no,  Jane !  once  they  came  together  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  the  understanding.  As  soon  as  Peter  came  back, 
I  felt  sure  it  would  be  all  right. 

Joyce:  And  I  too,  all  along,  was  convinced  the  tale  must 
end  happily. 

Martin  :  Strange !  so  was  I.  For  Love,  in  his  daily  labors, 
is  as  swift  in  averting  the  nature  of  perils  as  he  is  deft  in  divert- 
ing the  causes  of  misunderstanding.  I  know  in  fact  of  but  one 
thing  that  would  have  foiled  him. 

Four  of  the  Milkmaids:    What  then? 

Martin  :    Had  Helen  not  been  given  to  dreams. 

Not  a  word  was  said  in  the  Apple-Orchard. 

Joscelyn:  It  would  have  done  her  no  harm  had  she  not 
been,  singer.  Nor  would  your  story  have  suffered,  being,  like 
all  stories,  a  thing  as  important  as  thistledown.  In  either 
event,  though  Peter  had  perished,  or  misunderstood  her  for 
ever,  it  would  not  have  concerned  me  a  whit.  Or  even  in  both 
events. 

Jessica:     Nor  me. 

Jane:    Nor  me. 

Martin:  Then  farewell  my  story.  A  thing  as  important 
as  thistledown  is  as  unimportantly  dismissed.  And  yonder 
in  heaven  the  moon  sulks  at  us  through  a  cloud  with  a  quarter 
of  her  eye,  reproaching  us  for  our  peace-destroying  chatter. 
It  destroys  our  own  no  less  than  hers.  To  dream  is  forbid- 
den, but  at  least  let  us  sleep. 

One  by  one  the  milkmaids  settled  in  the  grass  and  covered 
their  faces  with  their  hands,  and  went  to  sleep.     But  Jennifer 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     129 

remained  where  she  was.  She  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  softly 
drawing  the  grassblade  through  and  through  her  fingers,  and 
the  swing  swayed  a  little  like  a  branch  moving  in  an  imper- 
ceptible wind,  and  her  breast  heaved  a  little  as  though  stirred 
with  inaudible  sighs.  She  sat  so  long  like  this  that  Martin 
knew  she  had  forgotten  he  was  beside  her,  and  he  quietly  put 
out  his  hand  to  draw  the  grassblade  from  hers.  But  before 
he  had  even  touched  it  he  felt  something  fall  upon  his  palm 
that  was  not  rain  or  dew. 

"Dear  Mistress  Jennifer,"  said  Martin  gently,  "why  do 
you  weep?" 

She  shook  her  head,  since  there  are  times  when  the  voice 
plays  a  girl  false,  and  will  not  serve  her. 

"Is  it,"  said  Martin,  "because  the  grass  is  not  green  enough?" 

She  nodded. 

"Pray  let  me  judge,"  entreated  Martin,  and  took  the  grass- 
blade  from  her  fingers.  Whereupon  she  put  her  face  into  her 
two  hands,  whispering: 

"Master  Pippin,  Master  Pippin,  oh,  Master  Pippin." 

"Let  me  judge,"  said  Martin  again,  but  in  a  whisper  too. 

Then  Jennifer  took  her  hands  from  her  wet  face,  and  looked 
at  him  with  her  wet  eyes,  and  said  with  great  braveness  and 
much  faltering: 

"I  will  be  nineteen  in  November." 

At  this  Martin  looked  very  grave,  and  he  got  down  from  the 
tree  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  orchard  full  of  thought. 
But  when  he  turned  there  he  found  that  she  had  stolen  after 
him,  and  was  standing  near  him  hanging  her  head,  yet  watch- 
ing him  with  deep  anxiety. 

Jennifer:     It  is  t-t-too  old,  isn't  it? 

Martin:     Too  old  for  what? 

Jennifer:     I — I — I  don't  know. 

Martin:  It  is,  of  course,  extremely  old.  There  are  things 
you  will  never  be  able  to  do  again,  because  you  are  so  old. 

Jennifer  sobbed. 

Martin  :  You  are  too  old  to  be  rocked  in  a  cradle.  You 
are  too  old  to  write  pothooks  and  hangers,  and  too  old,  alas,  to 
steal  pickles  and  jam  when  the  house  is  abed.  Yet  there  are 
still  a  few  things  you  might  do  if — 

Jennifer:     Oh,  if? 

Martin:  If  you  could  find  a  friend  as  old  as  yourself,  or 
even  a  little  older,  to  help  you. 


ISO    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Jennifer:  But  think  how  old  h — h — h —  the  friend  would 
have  to  be. 

Martin  :  What  would  that  matter  ?  For  all  grass  is  green 
enough  if  it  is  not  near  grass  that  looks  greener. 

Jennifer:    Oh,  is  this  true? 

Martin:  It  is  indeed.  And  I  believe  too  that  were  your 
friend's  hair  red  enough,  and  your  friend's  freckled  nose  snub 
enough,  since  youth  resides  long  in  these  qualities,  you  might 
even,  with  such  a  companion,  begin  once  more  to  steal  pickles 
and  jam  by  night,  to  learn  your  pothooks  and  hangers,  and 
even  in  time  to  be  rocked  asleep  by  a  cradle. 

Jennifer:     D-d-dear  Master  Pippin. 

Martin:    They  look  quite  green,  don't  they? 

And  he  laid  the  two  blades  side  by  side  on  her  palm,  and 
Jennifer,  whose  voice  once  more  would  not  serve  her,  nodded 
and  put  the  two  blades  in  her  pocket.  Then  Martin  took  out 
his  handkerchief  and  very  carefully  dried  her  eyes  and  cheeks, 
saying  as  he  did  so,  "Now  that  I  have  explained  this  to  your 
satisfaction,  won't  you,  please,  explain  something  to  mine?" 

Jennifer:    I  will  if  I  can. 

Martin:     Then  explain  what  it  is  you  have  against  men. 

Jennifer:    I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  it  is  so  terrible. 

Martin  :    I  will  try  to  bear  it. 

Jennifer  :    They  say  women  cannot — cannot — 

Martin  :    Cannot  ? 

Jennifer:    Keep  secrets! 

Martin:     Men  say  so? 

Jennifer:    Yes! 

Martin:    Men  say  so? 

Jennifer:    They  do,  they  do! 

Martin:  Men!  Oh,  Jupiter!  if  this  were  true — but  it  is 
not — these  men  would  be  blabbing  the  greatest  of  secrets  in  say- 
ing so.  If  I  had  a  secret — but  I  have  not — do  you  think  I 
would  trust  it  to  a  man  ?  Not  I !  What  does  a  man  do  with 
a  secret?  Forgets  it,  throws  it  behind  him  into  some  empty 
chamber  of  his  brain  and  lets  the  cobwebs  smother  it!  buries 
it  in  some  deserted  corner  of  his  heart,  and  lets  the  weeds  grow 
over  it!  Is  this  keeping  a  secret?  Would  you  keep  a  garden 
or  a  baby  so?  I  will  a  thousand  times  sooner  give  my  secret 
to  a  woman.  She  will  tend  it  and  cherish  it,  laugh  and  cry 
with  it,  dress  it  in  a  new  dress  every  day  and  dandle  it  in  the 
world's  eye  for  joy  and  pride  in  it — nay,  she  will  bid  the  whole 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     131 

world  come  into  her  nursery  to  admire  the  pretty  secret  she 
keeps  so  well.  And  under  her  charge  a  little  secret  will  grow 
into  a  big  one,  with  a  hundred  charms  and  additions  it  had 
not  when  I  confided  it  to  her,  so  that  I  shall  hardly  know  it 
again  when  I  ask  for  it:  so  beautiful,  so  important,  so  mysteri- 
ous will  it  have  become  in  the  woman's  care.  Oh,  believe  me, 
Mistress  Jennifer,  it  is  women  who  keep  secrets  and  men  who 
neglect  them. 

Jennifer:  If  I  had  only  thought  of  these  things  to  say! 
But  I  am  not  clever  at  argument  like  men. 

Martin:  I  suspect  these  clever  arguers.  They  can  always 
find  the  right  thing  to  say,  even  if  they  are  in  the  wrong. 
Women  are  not  to  be  blamed  for  washing  their  hands  of  tl?em 
for  ever. 

Jennifer:  I  know.  Yet  I  cannot  help  wondering  who 
bakes  them  gingerbread  for  Sunday. 

Martin:  Let  them  go  without.  They  do  not  deserve  gin- 
gerbread. 

Jennifer:  I  know,  I  know.  But  they  like  it  so  much. 
And  it  is  nice  making  it,  too. 

Martin:  Then  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  be  made  till  the 
last  of  Sundays.    What  a  bother  it  all  is. 

Jennifer:     I  know.    Good  night,  dear  Master  Pippin. 

Martin:  Dear  milkmaid,  good  night.  There  lie  your  fel- 
lows, careless  of  the  color  of  the  grass  they  lie  on,  and  of  the 
years  that  lie  on  them.  They  have  forsworn  the  baking  of 
cakes,  the  eating  of  which  begets  dreams,  to  which  women  are 
not  given.  Go  lie  with  them,  and  be  if  you  can  as  careless  and 
dreamless  as  they  are. 

And  then,  seeing  the  tears  refilling  her  eyes,  he  hastily  pulled 
out  his  handkerchief  again  and  wiped  them  as  they  fell,  say- 
ing, "But  if  you  cannot — if  3'ou  cannot  (don't  cry  so  fast!)  — 
if  you  cannot,  then  give  me  your  key  (dear  Jennifer,  please 
dry  up!)  to  Gillian's  Well-House,  because  you  were  glad  that 
my  tale  ended  gladly,  and  also  because  all  lovers,  no  matter  of 
what  age,  are  green  enough,  and  chiefly  because  my  handker- 
chief's sopping." 

Then  Jennifer  caught  his  hands  in  hers  and  whispered,  "Oh, 
Martin  !  are  they  ?  all  lovers  ? — are  they  green  enough  ?" 

"God  help  them,  yes!"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

She  dropped  his  hands,  leaving  her  key  in  them,  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  wet  lashes,  but  happiness  behind  them.    So  he 


132    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

stooped   and   kissed   the  last  tears   from  her  eyes.      Since  his 
handkerchief  had  become  quite  useless  for  the  purpose. 

And  she  stole  back  to  her  place,  and  he  lay  down  in  his,  and 
Jennifer  dreamed  that  she  was  baking  gingerbread,  and  Martin 
that  he  was  eating  it. 

"Maids),!  maids!  maids!" 

It  was  Old  Gillman  on  the  heels  of  dawn. 

"A  pest  on  him  and  all  farmers,"  groaned  Martin,  "who 
would  harvest  men's  slumbers  as  soon  as  they're  sown." 

"Get  into  hiding!"  commanded  Joscelyn. 

"I  will  not  budge,"  said  Martin.  "I  am  going  to  sleep 
again.  For  at  that  moment  I  had  a  lion  in  one  hand  and  a 
unicorn  in  the  other — " 

"PFill  you  conceal  yourself!"  whispered  Joscelyn,  with  as 
much  fury  as  a  whisper  can  compass. 

"And  the  lion  had  comfits  in  his  crown,  and  the  unicorn  a 
gilded  horn.    And  both  were  so  sticky  and  spicy  and  sweet—" 

Joscelyn  flung  herself  upon  her  knees  before  him,  spreading 
her  yellow  skirts  which  barely  concealed  him,  as  Old  Gillman 
thrust  his  head  through  the  hawthorn  gap. 

"Good  morrow,  maids,"  he  grunted. 

'< — that  I  knew  not,  dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,"  murmured 
Martin,  "which  to  bite  first." 

"Good  morrow,  master!"  cried  the  milkmaids  loudly;  and 
they  fluttered  their  petticoats  like  sunshine  between  the  man 
at  the  hedge  and  the  man  in  the  grass. 

"Is  my  daughter  any  merrier  this  morning?" 

"No,  master,"  said  Jennifer,  "yet  I  think  I  see  smiles  on 
their  way." 

"If  they  lag  much  longer,"  muttered  the  farmer,  "they'll  be 
on  the  wrong  side  of  her  mouth  when  they  do  come.  For  what 
sort  of  a  home  will  she  return  to? — a  pothouse!  and  what  sort 
of  a  father? — a  drunkard!  And  the  fault's  hers  that  deprives 
him  of  the  drink  he  loved  in  his  sober  days.  Gillian!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "when  will  ye  give  up  this  child's  whim  to  learn  by 
experience,  and  take  an  old  man's  word  for  it?" 

But  Gillian  was  as  deaf  to  him  as  to  the  cock  crowing  in  the 
barnyard. 

"Come  fetch  your  portion,"  said  Old  Gillman  to  the  milk- 
maids, "since  there's  no  help  for  it.  And  good  day  to  ye,  and 
a  better  morrow." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     133 

"Wait  a  bit,  master!"  entreated  Jennifer,  "and  tell  me  if 
Daisy,  my  Lincoln  Red,  lacks  for  anything." 

"For  nothing  that  Tom  can  help  her  to,  maid.  But  she  lacks 
you,  and  lacking  you,  her  milk.  So  that  being  a  cow  she  may 
be  said  to  lack  everything.  And  so  do  I,  and  the  men,  and  the 
farm — ruin's  our  portion,  nothing  but  rack  and  ruin." 

Saying  which  he  departed. 

"To  breakfast,"  said  Martin  cheerfully. 

"Suppose  you'd  been  seen,"  scolded  Joscelyn. 

"Then  our  tales  would  have  been  at  an  end,"  said  Martin. 
"Would  this  have  distressed  you?" 

"The  sooner  they're  ended  the  better,"  said  Joscelyn,  "if  you 
can  do  nothing  but  babble  of  sticky  unicorns." 

"It  was  fresh  from  the  oven,"  explained  Martin  meekly.  "I 
wish  we  could  have  gingerbread  for  breakfast  instead  of 
bread." 

"Do  not  be  sure,"  said  Joscelyn  severely,  "that  you  will  get 
even  bread." 

"I  am  in  your  hands,"  said  Martin,  "but  please  be  kinder 
to  the  ducks." 

Joscelyn,  all  of  a  fluster,  then  put  new  bread  in  the  place 
of  Gillian's  old ;  but  her  annoyance  was  turned  to  pleasure 
when  she  discovered  that  the  little  round  top  of  yesterday's 
loaf  had  entirely  disappeared. 

"Upon  my  word!"  cried  she,  "the  cure  is  taking  effect." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Martin.  "How  sorry  the 
ducks  will  be." 

They  quickly  fed  the  ducks,  and  then  themselves;  and  Mar- 
tin received  his  usual  share,  Joscelyn  having  so  far  relented  that 
she  even  advised  him  as  to  the  best  tree  for  apples  in  the  whole 
orchard. 

After  breakfast  Martin  found  six  pair  of  eyes  fixed  so  ear- 
nestly upon  him  that  he  began  to  laugh. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  asked  little  Joan. 

"Because  of  my  thoughts,"  said  he.  So  she  took  a  new  penny 
from  her  pocket  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Martin,  "how  strange  it  is  that  girls 
are  all  so  exactly  alike." 

"Oh!"  cried  six  different  voices  in  a  single  key  of  indigna- 
tion. 

"Wbat  a  fib!"  said  Joyce.    "I  am  like  nobody  but  me." 

"Nor  am  I !"  cried  all  the  others  in  a  breath. 


134    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Yet  a  moment  ago,"  said  Martin,  "you,  Mistress  Joyce,  were 
wondering  with  all  your  might  what  diversion  I  had  hit  upon 
for  this  morning.  And  so  were  Jane  and  Jessica  and  Jennifer 
and  Joan  and  Joscelyn." 

"I  was  not!"  cried  six  voices  at  once. 

"What,  none  of  you?"  said  Martin.     "Did  I  not  say  so?" 

And  they  were  very  provoked,  not  knowing  what  to  answer 
for  fear  it  might  be  on  the  tip  of  her  neighbor's  tongue.  So 
they  said  nothing  at  all,  and  with  one  accord  tossed  their  heads 
and  turned  their  backs  on  him.  And  Martin  laughed,  leaving 
them  to  guess  why.  On  which,  greatly  put  out,  every  girl 
stamped  her  foot.  And  Martin  laughed  more  than  ever.  So 
without  even  consulting  one  another  they  decided  to  have  noth- 
ing further  to  do  with  him,  and  each  girl  went  and  sat  under 
a  different  apple-tree  and  began  to  do  her  hair. 

"Heigho!"  said  Martin.  "Then  this  morning  I  must  divert 
myself."  And  he  began  to  spin  his  golden  penny  In  the  sun, 
sometimes  spinning  it  very  dexterously  from  his  elbow  and  never 
letting  it  fall.  But  the  girls  wouldn't  look,  or  if  they  did.  it 
was  through  stray  bits  of  their  hair;  when  they  could  not  be 
suspected  of  looking. 

"I  shall  certainly  lose  this  penny,"  communed  Martin  with 
himself,  quite  audibly,  "if  somebody  does  not  lend  me  a  purse 
to  keep  it  in."  But  nobody  offered  him  one,  so  he  plucked  a 
blade  of  Shepherd's  Purse  from  the  grass,  soliloquizing,  "Now 
had  I  been  a  shepherd,  or  had  the  shepherd's  name  been  Mar- 
tin, here  was  my  purse  to  my  hand.  And  then,  having  saved  my 
riches  I  might  have  got  married.  Yet  I  never  was  a  shepherd, 
nor  ever  knew  a  shepherd  of  my  name;  and  a  penny  is  in  any 
case  a  great  deal  too  much  money  for  a  man  to  marry  on,  be 
he  a  shepherd  or  no.  For  it  is  always  best  to  marry  on  next- 
to-nothing,  from  which  a  penny  is  three  times  removed." 

Then  he  went  on  spinning  his  penny  in  the  air  again,  hum- 
ming to  himself  a  song  of  no  value,  which,  so  far  as  the  girls 
could  tell  for  the  hair  over  their  ears,  went  as  follows: 

//  /  sJwuld  be  so  lucky 

As  a  farthing  for  to  find, 

I  nvouldn't  spend   the  farthing 

According   to    my   mind. 

But  I'd  beat  it  and  I'd  bend  it 

And  I'd  break  it  into  two. 

And  give  one  half  to  a  Shepherd 

And  the  other  half  to  you. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     135 

And   as  for   both  your  fortunes, 
I'd  luish  you  nothing  ijuorse 
Than  that  your  half  and  his  half 
Should  lie  in  the  Shepherd's  Purse. 

At  the  end  of  the  song  he  spun  the  penny  so  high  that  it 
fell  into  the  Well-House;  and  endeavoring  to  catch  it  he  flung 
the  spire  of  wild-flower  after  it,  and  so  lost  both.  And  nobody 
took  the  least  notice  of  his  song  or  his  loss. 

Then  Martin  said,  "Who  cares?"  and  took  a  new  clay  pipe 
and  a  little  packet  from  his  pocket;  and  he  wandered  about  the 
orchard  till  he  had  found  an  old  tin  pannikin,  and  he  scooped 
up  some  water  from  the  duckpond  and  made  a  lather  in  it  with 
the  soap  in  the  packet,  and  sat  on  the  gate  and  blew  bubbles. 
The  first  bubble  in  the  pipe  was  always  crystal,  and  sometimes 
had  a  jewel  hanging  from  it  which  made  it  fall  to  the  earth; 
and  the  second  was  tinged  with  color,  and  the  third  gleamed  like 
sunset,  or  like  peacocks'  wings,  or  rainbows,  or  opals.  All  the 
colors  of  earth  and  heaven  chased  each  other  on  their  surfaces 
in  all  the  swift  and  changing  shapes  that  tobacco  smoke  plays 
at  on  the  air ;  but  of  all  their  colors  they  would  take  the  deep- 
est glow  of  one  or  two,  and  now  Martin  would  blow  a  world 
of  flame  and  orange  through  the  trees,  or  one  of  blue  and  gold, 
or  another  of  green  and  rose.  And,  as  he  might  have  watched 
his  dreams,  he  watched  the  bubbles  float  away;  and  break. 
But  one  of  the  loveliest  at  last  sailed  over  the  Well-House  and 
between  the  ropes  of  the  swing  and  among  the  fruit-laden 
boughs,  miraculously  escaping  all  perils;  and  over  the  hedge, 
where  a  small  wind  bore  it  up  and  up  out  of  sight.  And  Mar- 
tin, who  had  been  looking  after  it  with  a  rapt  gaze,  sighed, 
"Oh!"  And  six  other  "Ohs!"  echoed  his.  Then  he  looked 
up  and  saw  the  six  milkmaids  standing  quite  close  to  him,  full 
of  hesitation  and  longing.  So  he  took  six  more  pipes  from  his 
pockets,  and  soon  the  air  was  glistening  with  bubbles,  big  and 
little.  Sometimes  they  blew  the  bubbles  very  quickly,  shaking 
the  tiny  globes  as  fast  as  they  could  from  the  bowl,  till  the  air 
was  filled  with  a  treasure  of  opals  and  diamonds  and  moon- 
stones and  pearls,  as  though  the  king  of  the  east  had  emptied 
his  casket  there.  And  sometimes  they  blew  steadily  and  with 
care,  endeavoring  to  create  the  best  and  biggest  bubble  of  all; 
but  generally  they  blew  an  instant  too  long,  and  the  bubble 
burst  before  it  left  the  pipe.  Whenever  a  great  sphere  was 
launched  the  blower  cried  in  ecstasy,  "Oh,  look  at  mine!"  and 


136    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

her  comrades,  merely  glancing,  cried  in  equal  ecstasy,  "Yes,  but 
see  mine!"  And  each  had  a  moment's  delight  in  the  others' 
bubbles,  but  everlasting  joy  in  her  own,  and  was  secretly  cer- 
tain that  of  all  the  bubbles  hers  were  the  biggest  and  brightest. 
The  biggest  and  brightest  of  all  was  really  blown  by  little 
Joan:  as  Martin,  in  a  whisper,  assured  her.  He  whispered 
the  same  thing,  however,  to  each  of  her  friends,  and  for  one 
truth  told  five  lies.  Sometimes  they  played  together,  taking 
their  bubbles  delicately  from  one  pipe  to  another,  and  some- 
times blew  their  bubbles  side  by  side  till  they  united,  and  made 
their  venture  into  the  world  like  man  and  wife.  And  often 
they  put  all  their  pipes  at  once  into  the  pannikin,  and  blew  in 
the  water,  rearing  a  great  palace  of  crystal  hemispheres,  that 
rose  until  it  hit  their  chins  and  cheeks  and  the  tips  of  their 
noses,  and  broke  on  them,  leaving  on  their  fair  skin  a  trace  of 
glistening  foam.  And  as  the  six  laughing  faces  bent  over  the 
pannikin  on  his  knees,  Martin  observed  that  Joscelyn's  hair 
was  coiled  like  two  great  lovely  roses  over  her  ears,  and  that 
Joyce's  was  in  clusters  of  ringlets,  and  that  Jane's  was  folded 
close  and  smooth  and  shining  round  .her  small  head,  and  that 
Jessica's  was  tucked  under  like  a  boy's,  while  Jennifer's  lay  in 
a  soft  knot  on  her  neck.  But  little  Joan's  was  hanging  still  in 
its  plaits  over  her  shoulders,  and  one  thick  plait  was  half  un- 
done, and  the  loose  hair  got  in  her  own  and  everybody's  way, 
and  was  such  a  nuisance  that  Martin  was  obliged  at  last  to 
gather  it  in  his  hand  and  hold  it  aside  for  the  sake  of  the  bubble- 
blowers.  And  when  they  lifted  their  heads  he  was  looking  at 
them  so  gravely  that  Joyce  laughed,  and  Jessica's  eyes  were  a 
question,  and  Jane  looked  demure,  and  Jennifer  astonished,  and 
Joscelyn  extremely  composed  and  indifferent.  And  little  Joan 
blushed.    To  cover  her  blushing  she  offered  him  another  penny. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Martin,  "how  strange  it  is  that  girls 
are  so  absolutely  different." 

Then  six  demure  shadows  appeared  at  the  very  corners  of 
their  mouths,  and  they  rose  from  their  knees  and  said  with  one 
accord,  "It  must  be  dinner-time."    And  it  was. 

"Bread  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Martin,  tw'wYmg  a  buttercup 
as  he  svi^allowed  his  last  crumb,  "but  I  also  like  butter.  Do  not 
you,  Mistress  Joscelyn  ?" 

"It  depends  on  who  makes  it,"  said  she.  "There  is  butter 
and  butter." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     137 

"I  believe,"  said  Martin,  "that  you  do  not  like  butter  at 
all." 

"I  do  not  like  other  people's  butter,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"Let  us  be  sure,"  said  Martin.  And  he  twirled  his  butter- 
cup under  her  chin.  "Fie,  Mistress  Joscelyn!"  he  cried,  "What 
a  golden  chin!  I  neyer  saw  any  one  so  fond  of  butter  in  all 
my  days." 

"Is  it  very  gold?"  asked  Joscelyn,  and  ran  to  the  duckpond 
to  look,  but  couldn't  see  because  she  was  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  gate. 

"Do  I  like  butter?"  cried  Jessica. 

"Do  I?"         1  f  Jennifer 

"Do  I?"  I    cried       J«>'^^ 

"Do  I?"  f  I  Jane  and 

"Oh,  do  I?"  J  L  Joan. 

"We'll  soon  find  out,"  said  Martin,  and  put  buttercups  under 
all  their  chins,  turn  by  turn.  And  they  all  liked  butter  ex- 
ceedingly. 

"Do  you  like  butter,  Master  Pippin?"  asked  little  Joan. 

"Try  me,"  said  he. 

And  six  buttercups  were  simultaneously  presented  to  his  chin, 
and  it  was  discovered  that  he  liked  butter  the  best  of  them  all. 

Then  every  girl  had  to  prove  it  on  every  other  girl,  and 
again  on  Martin  one  at  a  time,  and  he  on  them  again.  And  in 
this  delicious  pastime  the  afternoon  wore  by,  and  evening  fell, 
and  they  came  golden-chinned  to  supper. 

Supper  was  scarcely  ended — indeed,  her  mouth  was  still  full 
— when  Jessica,  looking  straight  at  Martin,  said,  "I'm  dying 
to  swing." 

"I  never  saved  a  lady's  life  easier,"  said  Martin;  and  in 
one  moment  she  found  herself  where  she  wished  to  be,  and  in 
the  next  saw  him  close  beside  her  on  the  apple-bough.  The 
five  other  girls  went  to  their  own  branches  as  naturally  as  hens 
to  the  roost.  Joscelyn  inspected  them  like  a  captain  marshalling 
his  men,  and  when  each  was  armed  with  an  apple  she  said: 

"We  are  ready  now,  Master  Pippin." 

"I  wish  I  were  too,"  said  he,  "but  my  tale  has  taken  a  fit 
of  the  shivers  on  the  threshold,  like  an  unexpected  guest  who 
doubts  his  welcome." 

"Are  we  not  all  bidding  it  in?"  said  Josceh^n  impatiently. 

"Yes,  like  sweet  daughters  of  the  house,"  said  Martin.    "But 


138    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

what  of  the  mistress?"  And  he  looked  across  at  Gillian  by  the 
well,  but  she  looked  only  into  the  grass  and  her  thoughts. 

"Let  the  daughters  do  to  begin  with,"  said  Joscelyn,  "and 
make  it  your  business  to  stay  till  the  mistress  shall  appear." 

"That  might  be  to  outstay  my  welcome,"  said  Martin,  "and 
then  her  appearance  would  be  my  discomfiture.  For  a  hostess 
has,  according  to  her  guests,  as  many  kinds  of  face  as  a  wild- 
flower,  according  to  its  counties,  names." 

"Some  kinds  have  only  one  name,"  said  Jessica,  plucking  a 
stalk  crowned  with  flowers  as  fine  as  spray.  "What  would  you 
call  this  but  Cow  Parsley?" 

"If  I  were  in  Anglia,"  said  Martin,  "I  would  call  it  Queen's 
Lace." 

"That's  a  pretty  name,"  said  Jessica. 

"Pretty  enough  to  sing  about,"  said  Martin;  and  looking 
carelessly  at  the  Well-House  he  thrummed  his  lute  and  sang — 

The  Queen  netted  lace 

On  the  first  April  day. 

The  Queen  ivore  her  lace 

In  the  first  -week  of  May, 

The  Queen  soiled  her  lace 

Ere  May  ivas  out  again. 

So   the  Queen  ivashed  her  lace 

In   the  first  June  rain. 

The  Queen  bleached  her  lace 

On  the  first  of  July, 

She  spread  it  in  the  orchard 

And  left  it  there  to  dry. 

But   on  the  first  of  August 

It  ivasn't  in  its  place 

Because   my  sweetheart  picked  it  up 

And  hung  it  o'er  her  face. 

She  laughed  at   me,  she  blushed  at  me. 

With  such  a  pretty  grace 

That  I   kissed  her   in  September 

Through  the  Queen's  ozvn  lace. 

At  the  end  of  the  song  Gillian  sat  up  in  the  grass,  and  looked 
with  all  her  heart  over  the  duckpond. 

Joscelyn:  I  find  your  songs  singularly  lacking  in  point, 
singer. 

Martin:  You  surprise  me.  Mistress  Joscelyn.  The  kiss 
was  the  point. 

Joscelyn:  It  is  like  you  to  think  so.  It  is  just  like  you  to 
think  a — a — a — 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     139 

Martin  :    — kiss — 

Joscelyn:     Sufficient  conclusion  to  any  circumstances. 

Martin:    Isn't  it? 

Joscelyn  :  My  goodness!  You  might  as  soon  ask,  is  a  pear- 
drop  sufficient  for  a  body's  dinner. 

Martin  :  It  would  suffice  me.  I  love  peardrops.  But  then 
I  am  a  man.  Women  doubtless  need  more  substance,  being  in 
themselves  more  insubstantial.  Now  as  to  your  quarrel  with 
my  song — 

Joscelyn:  It  is  of  no  consequence.  You  raise  expectations 
which  you  do  not  fulfill.     But  it  is  not  of  the  least  consequence. 

Martin:  Dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  my  only  desire  is  to 
please  you.  We  will  not  conclude  on  a  kiss.  You  shall  fulfill 
your  own  expectations. 

Joscelyn:     Mine? — I  have  no  expectations  whatever. 

Martin  :  But  I  have  disappointed  you.  What  shall  I  do 
with  my  sweetheart?  Shall  she  be  whipped  for  her  theft? 
Shall  she  be  shut  in  a  dungeon?  Shall  she  be  thrown  before 
elephants?     Choose  your  conclusion. 

Joan:  But,  Master  Pippin! — why  must  the  poor  sweet- 
heart be  punished  ?  I  am  sure  Joscelyn  never  wished  her  to  be 
punished.     There  are  other  conclusions. 

Martin:  Dunderhead  that  I  am,  I  can't  think  of  any! 
What,  Mistress  Joscelyn,  was  the  conclusion  you  expected? 

Joscelyn:     I  tell  you,  I  expected  none! 

Joan:  Why,  Master  Pippin!  I  should  have  fancied  that, 
seeing  the  dear  sweetheart  had  hung  the  veil  over  her  face,  she 
might — 

Martin  :    Yes  ? 

Joan  :    Be  expected — 

Martin:    Yes? 

Joan  :    To  be  about  to  be — 

Joscelyn  :  I  am  sick  to  death  of  this  silly  sweetheart.  And 
since  our  mistress  appears  to  be  listening  with  both  her  ears,  it 
would  be  more  to  the  point  to  begin  whatever  story  you  propose 
to  relate  to-night,  and  be  done  with  it. 

Martin:  You  are  always  right.  Therefore  add  your  ears 
to  hers,  while  I  tell  you  the  tale  of  Open  Winkins. 


OPEN  WINKINS 

THERE  were  once,  dear  maidens,  five  lords  in  the  east  of 
Sussex,  who  owned  between  them  a  single  Burgh;  for 
they  were  brothers.  Their  names  were  Lionel  and 
Hugh  and  Heriot  and  Ambrose  and  Hobb.  Lionel  was  ten 
years  of  age  and  Hobb  was  twenty-two,  there  being  exactly 
three  years  all  but  a  month  between  the  birthdays  of  the 
brothers.  And  Lionel  had  a  merry  spirit,  and  Hugh  great 
courage  and  daring,  and  Heriot  had  beauty  past  any  man's 
share,  and  Ambrose  had  a  wise  mind;  but  Hobb  had  nothing 
at  all  for  the  world's  praise,  for  he  only  had  a  loving  heart, 
which  he  spent  upon  his  brothers  and  his  garden.  And  since 
love  begets  love,  they  all  loved  him  dearly,  and  leaned  heavily 
on  his  affection,  though  neither  they  nor  any  man  looked  up 
to  him  because  he  was  a  lord.  Although  he  was  the  eldest,  and 
in  his  quiet  way  administered  the  affairs  of  the  Burgh  and  of 
the  people  of  Alfriston  under  the  Burgh,  it  was  Ambrose  who 
was  always  thinking  of  new  schemes  for  improvement,  and 
Heriot  who  undertook  the  festivities.  As  for  the  younger  boys, 
they  kept  the  old  place  alive  with  their  youth  and  spirits;  and 
it  was  evident  that  later  on  Hugh  would  win  honor  to  the 
Burgh  in  battle  and  adventure,  and  Lionel  would  draw  the 
world  thither  with  his  charm.  But  Hobb,  to  whom  they  all 
brought  their  shapeless  dreams  white-hot,  since  sympathy  helps 
us  to  create  bodies  for  the  things  which  begin  their  existence  as 
souls — Hobb  differed  from  the  four  others  not  only  in  his  name, 
but  in  his  plain  appearance  and  simple  tastes.  And  all  these 
things,  as  well  as  his  tender  heart,  he  got  from  his  mother,  who 
was  the  only  daughter  of  a  gardener  of  Alfriston.  The  gar- 
dener, to  whom  she  was  the  very  apple  of  his  eye,  had  kept  her 
privately  in  a  place  on  a  hill,  fearing  lest  in  her  youth  and  in- 
experience she  should  fall  to  the  lot  of  some  man  not  worthy  of 
her;  for  he  knew,  or  believed,  that  a  young  girl  of  her  sweet- 
ness and  tenderness  and  devotedness  of  disposition  would  by 
her  sweetness  attract  a  lover  too  early,  and  by  her  tenderness 
respond    to   him   too   readily,    and   by   her   devotedness   follow 

140 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     141 

him  too  blindly,  before  she  had  time  to  know  herself  or  men. 
And  he  also  knew,  or  believed,  that  first  love  is  as  often  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp  as  the  star  for  which  all  young  things  take  it.  Five 
days  in  the  week  he  tended  the  gardens  of  Alfriston,  the  sixth 
he  gave  to  the  Lord  of  the  Burgh  that  lay  among  the  hills,  and 
the  seventh  he  kept  for  his  daughter  on  the  hill  a  few  miles  dis- 
tant, which  was  afterwards  known  as  Hobb's  Hawth.  She 
on  her  part  spent  her  week  in  endeavoring  to  grow  a  perfect 
rose  of  a  certain  golden  species,  and  her  heart  was  given  wholly 
to  her  father  and  her  flower.  And  he  watched  her  efforts  with 
interest  and  advice,  and  for  the  first  she  thanked  him  but  of 
the  second  took  no  heed.  "For,"  said  she,  "this  is  my  garden, 
father,  and  my  rose,  and  I  will  grow  it  in  my  own  way  or  not 
at  all.  Have  you  not  had  a  lifetime  of  gardens  and  roses  which 
you  have  brought  to  perfection?  And  would  you  let  any  man 
take  your  own  upon  his  shoulders,  even  your  own  mistakes,  and 
shoulder  at  last  the  praise  after  the  blame?"  Then  Hobb,  her 
father,  laughed  at  her  indulgently  and  said,  "Nay,  not  any 
man ;  yet  once  I  let  a  woman,  and  without  her  aid  I  would 
never  have  brought  my  rarest  and  dearest  flower  to  perfection. 
So  if  I  should  let  a  woman  help  me,  why  not  you  a  man?" 
"Was  the  woman  your  mother?"  said  she.  And  her  father 
was  silent.  Then  a  day  came  when  he  trudged  up  and  down 
the  hills  from  Alfriston,  and  standing  at  the  gate  of  her  garden 
saw  his  child  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger;  and  her  face,  as  it  lay 
against  his  heart,  seemed  to  her  father  also  to  be  the  face  of  a 
stranger,  and  not  of  his  child.  He  recognized  in  the  stranger 
the  Lord  of  the  Burgh.  And  he  saw  that  what  he  had  feared 
had  come  to  pass,  and  that  his  daughter's  heart  would  be  no 
more  divided  between  her  father  and  her  flower,  for  it  was 
given  whole  to  the  lover  who  had  first  assailed  it.  Hobb  came 
into  the  garden,  and  they  looked  up  as  the  gate  clicked,  and 
their  faces  grew  as  red  as  though  one  had  caught  the  reflection 
from  the  other.  But  both  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  And 
his  daughter,  pointing  to  her  bush,  said,  "Father,  my  rose  is 
grown  at  last,"  and  he  saw  that  the  bush  was  crowned  with  a 
glorious  golden  bloom,  perfect  in  every  detail.  Then  it  was 
the  turn  of  the  Lord  of  the  Burgh,  and  he  said,  "Sir,  I  ask 
leave  to  rob  your  garden  of  its  rose."  "Do  robbers  ask  leave?" 
said  Hobb.  And  he  shook  his  head,  adding,  "Nay,  when  the 
thief  and  the  theft  are  in  collusion,  what  say  is  left  to  the  owner 
of  the  treasure?     Vet  I  do  not  like  this.     Sir,  have  you  con- 


142    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

sidered  that  she  is  a  gardener's  child?  Daughter,  have  you 
considered  that  he  is  a  lord?"  And  neither  of  them  had  con- 
sidered these  questions,  and  they  did  not  propose  to  do  so. 
Then  Hobb  shook  his  head  again  and  said,  "I  will  not  waste 
words.  I  know  when  a  plant  can  drink  no  more  water.  And 
though  you  pretend  to  ask  my  leave,  I  know  that  you  are  pre- 
pared to  dispense  with  it.  But  by  way  of  consent  I  will  say 
this:  whatever  you  may  call  your  other  sons,  you  shall  call  your 
first  Hobb,  to  remind  you  to-morrow  of  what  you  will  not  con- 
sider to-day.  For  my  daughter,  when  she  is  a  lord's  wife,  will 
none  the  less  still  be  a  gardener's  daughter,  and  your  children 
will  be  grafted  of  two  stocks.  And  if  this  seems  to  you  a  hard 
condition,  then  kiss  and  bid  farewell."  And  they  both  laughed 
with  joy  at  the  lightness  of  the  condition ;  but  the  gardener  did 
not  laugh.  And  so  the  Lord  of  the  Burgh  married  the  gar- 
dener's daughter,  and  they  called  their  first  son  Hobb.  He 
was  born  on  a  first  of  August,  and  thirty-five  months  later  Am- 
brose was  born  on  the  first  of  July,  and  in  due  course  Heriot  in 
June,  and  Hugh  in  May,  and  Lionel  in  April.  And  the  Lord, 
loving  his  sons  equally,  made  them  equal  possessors  of  the  Burgh 
when  in  time  it  should  pass  out  of  his  hands.  Which,  since 
men  are  mortal,  presently  came  to  pass,  and  there  were  five 
lords  instead  of  one. 

It  happened  on  a  roaring  night  of  March,  when  the  wind  was 
blustering  over  the  barren  ocean  of  the  east  Downs,  and  Lionel 
was  still  a  boy  of  ten,  but  soon  to  be  eleven,  that  the  five 
brothers  sat  clustered  about  the  great  hearth  in  the  hall,  roast- 
ing apples  and  talking  of  this  and  that.  But  their  talk  was 
fitful,  and  had  long  pauses  in  which  they  listened  to  the  gusty 
night,  which  had  so  much  more  to  say  than  they.  And  after 
one  of  the  silences  Lionel  shuddered  slightly,  and  drawing  his 
little  stool  closer  to  Hobb  he  said : 

"It  sounds  like  witches,"  Hobb  put  his  big  hand  round  the 
child's  head  and  face,  and  Lionel  pressed  his  cheek  against  his 
brother's  knee. 

"Or  lions,"  said  Hugh,  jumping  up  and  running  to  the  win- 
dow, where  he  flattened  his  nose  to  stare  into  the  night.  "I 
wish  it  were  lions  coming  over  the  Downs." 

"What  would  you  do  with  them?"  said  Hobb,  smiling 
broadly. 

"Fight  them,"  said  Hugh,  "and  chain  them  up.  I  should 
like  to  have  lions  instead  of  dogs — a  red  lion  and  a  white  one." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     143 

"I  never  heard  tell  of  lions  of  those  colors,"  said  Hobb.  "But 
perhaps  Ambrose  has  with  all  his  reading." 

"Not  I,"  said  Ambrose,  "but  I  haven't  read  half  the  books 
yet.  The  wind  still  knows  more  than  I,  and  it  may  be  that  he 
knows  where  red  and  white  lions  are  to  be  found.  For  he 
knows   everything." 

"And  has  seen  everything,"  murmured  Heriot,  watching  a 
lovely  flame  of  blue  and  green  that  flickered  among  the  red 
and  gold  on  the  hearth. 

"And  has  been  everywhere,"  muttered  Hugh.  "If  I  could 
find  and  catch  him,  I'd  ask  him  for  a  red  and  a  white  lion." 

"I'd  rather  have  peacocks,"  said  Heriot,  his  eyes  on  the 
fire. 

"What  would  you  choose,  Ambrose?"  asked  Hobb. 

"Nothing,"  said  he,  "but  it's  the  hardest  of  all  things  to 
have,  and  I  doubt  if  I'd  get  it.  But  what  business  have  we  to 
be  choosing  presents?  That  is  Lionel's  right  before  ours,  for 
isn't  his  birthday  next  month  ?  What  will  you  ask  of  the  wind 
for  your  birthday,  Lai?" 

Then  Lionel,  who  was  getting  very  drowsy,  smiled  a  sleepy 
smile,  and  said,  "I'd  like  a  farm  of  my  own  in  the  Downs,  a 
very  little  farm  with  pink  pigs  and  black  cocks  and  white 
donkeys  and  chestnut  horses  no  bigger  than  grasshoppers  and 
mice,  and  a  very  little  well  as  big  as  my  mug  to  draw  up  my 
water  from,  and  a  little  green  paddock  the  size  of  my  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  another  of  yellow  corn,  and  another  of  crim- 
son trefoil.  And  I  would  have  a  blue  farm-wagon  no  larger 
than  Hobb's  shoe,  and  a  haystack  half  as  big  as  a  seed-cake,  and 
a  duckpond  that  I  could  cover  with  my  platter.  And  I'd  live 
there  and  play  with  it  all  day  long,  if  only  I  knew  where  the 
wind  lives,  and  could  ask  him  how  to  get  it." 

"Don't  start  till  to-morrow,"  jested  Ambrose,  "to-night 
you're  too  sleepy  to  find  the  way." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  book,  and  Hugh  was  still  at  the  win- 
dow, and  Heriot  gazing  into  the  fire.  And  as  he  felt  the 
child's  head  droop  in  his  hand,  Hobb  picked  him  up  in  his  arms 
and  carried  him  to  bed.  And  he  alone  of  all  those  brothers 
had  made  no  choice,  nor  had  they  thought  to  ask  him,  so  accus- 
tomed were  they  to  see  him  jog  along  without  the  desires  that 
lead  men  to  their  goals — such  as  Ambrose's  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge, and  Hcriot's  passion  for  beauty,  and  Hugh's  lust  for  ad- 
venture, and  Lionel's  pursuit  of  delight.    And  yet,  unknown  to 


144    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

them  all,  he  had  a  heartfelt  wish  which,  among  other  things, 
he  had  inherited  from  his  mother.  For  on  a  height  west  of 
the  Burgh  he  had  made  a  garden  where,  like  her,  he  labored 
to  produce  a  perfect  golden  rose.  But  so  far  luck  was  against 
him,  though  his  height,  which  was  therefore  spoken  of  as  the 
Gardener's  Hill,  bloomed  with  the  loveliest  flowers  of  all  sorts 
imaginable.  But  year  by  year  his  rose  was  attacked  by  a  spe- 
cial pest,  the  nature  of  which  he  had  not  succeeded  in  discov- 
ering. Yet  his  patience  was  inexhaustible,  and  his  brothers 
who  sometimes  came  to  his  garden  when  they  needed  a  listener 
for  their  achieved  or  unachieved  ambitions,  never  suspected  that 
he  too  had  an  ambition  he  had  not  realized,  for  they  saw  only  a 
lovely  garden  of  his  creating,  where  wisdom,  beauty,  adven- 
ture, and  delight  were  made  equally  welcome  by  the  gardener. 
Now  on  the  March  day  following  the  night  of  the  brothers' 
windy  talk — 

(But  suddenly  Martin,  with  a  nimble  movement,  stood  up- 
right on  his  bough,  and  grasping  that  to  which  the  swing  was 
attached,  shook  it  with  such  frenzy  that  a  tempest  seemed  to 
pass  through  the  tree,  and  the  girls  shrieked  and  clung  to  the 
trunk,  and  leaves  and  apples  flew  in  all  directions;  and  Jessica, 
between  clutching  at  her  ropes,  and  letting  go  to  ward  off  the 
cannonade  of  fruit,  gasped  in  a  tumult  of  laughter  and  indigna- 
tion. 

Jessica:  Have  you  gone  mad,  Master  Pippin?  have  you 
gone  mad? 

Martin  :  Mad,  Mistress  Jessica,  stark  staring  mad !  March 
hares  are  pet  rabbits  to  me! 

Jessica:  Sit  down  this  instant!  do  you  hear?  this  instant! 
That's  better.  What  fun  it  was!  Aha!  you  thought  you  could 
shake  me  off,  but  you  didn't.     Are  you  still  mad? 

Martin:     Melancholy  mad,  since  you  will  not  let  me  rave. 

Jessica:  You  are  the  less  dangerous.  But  I  hate  you  to  be 
melancholy. 

Martin:  It  is  no  one's  fault  but  yours.  How  can  I  be 
jolly  when  my  story  upsets  you? 

Jessica:     How  do  you  know  it  upsets  me? 

Martin  :    You  put  out  your  tongue  at  me. 

Jessica:    Did  I? 

Martin:  Yes,  without  reason.  So  what  could  I  do  but 
whistle  mine  to  the  winds? 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     145 

Jessica:    You  were  too  hasty,  for  I  had  my  reason. 

Martin:    If  it  was  a  good  one  I'll  whistle  mine  back  again. 

Jessica:  It  was  this.  That  no  man  in  a  love-tale  should 
be  wiser  or  braver  or  more  beautiful  or  more  happy  than  the 
hero;  or  how  can  he  be  the  hero?  Yet  I  am  sure  Hobb  is  the 
hero  and  none  of  the  others,  because  he  is  the  only  one  old 
enough  to  be  married. 

Martin  :   Ambrose  is  nineteen,  and  will  very  soon  be  twenty. 

Jessica:  What's  nineteen,  or  even  twenty,  in  a  man?  Fie! 
a  man's  not  a  man  till  he  comes  of  age,  and  the  hero's  not  Am- 
brose for  all  his  wisdom,  though  wisdom  becomes  a  hero.  Nor 
Heriot  for  all  his  beauty,  though  a  hero  should  be  beautiful. 
Nor  Hugh',  who  will  one  day  be  brave  enough  for  any  hero, 
though  now  he's  but  a  boy.  Nor  the  happy  Lionel,  who  is 
only  a  child — yet  I  love  a  gay  hero.  It's  none  of  these,  full 
though  they  be  of  the  qualities  of  heroes.  And  here  is  your 
Hobb  with  nothing  to  show  but  a  fondness  for  roses. 

Martin  :  You  deserve  to  be  stood  in  a  corner  for  that 
nothing,  Mistress  Jessica.  Your  reason  was  such  a  bad  one 
that  I  see  I  must  return  to  sense  if  only  to  teach  you  a  little 
of  it.    Did  I  not  say  Hobb  had  a  loving  heart? 

Jessica:  But  he  was  plain  and  simple  and  patient  and 
contented.     Are  these  things  for  a  hero? 

Martin  :  Mistress  Jessica,  I  will  ask  you  a  riddle.  What 
is  it — ?    Oh,  but  first,  I  take  it  you  love  apple-trees? 

Jessica:    Who  doesn't? 

Martin:  What  is  it,  then,  you  love  in  an  apple-tree?  Is 
it  the  dancing  of  the  leaves  in  the  wind?  Is  it  the  boldness 
of  the  boughs?  Or  perhaps  the  loveliness  of  the  flower  in 
spring?  Or  again  the  fruit  that  ripens  of  the  flower  amongst 
the  leaves  on  the  boughs?  What  is  it  you  love  in  an  apple- 
tree  ? 

Jessica:  All  riddles  are  traps.  I  must  consider  before  I 
answer. 

Martin:  You  shall  consider  until  the  conclusion  of  my 
story,  and  not  till  you  are  satisfied  that  many  things  can  be 
contained  in  one,  will  I  require  your  solution.  And  as  for 
traps.  It  is  always  the  solver  of  riddles  who  lays  his  own  trap, 
by  looking  all  round  the  question  and  never  straight  at  it.  Put 
on  your  thinking-cap,  I  beg,  while  I  go  on  babbling.) 

On  the  March  day  following  the  brothers'  talk   (continue J 


146    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Martin)  Lionel  was  missing.  It  was  some  time  before  his  ab- 
sence was  noticed,  for  Hobb  was  in  his  distant  garden,  and 
Ambrose  among  his  books,  and  Heriot  had  ridden  north  to  the 
market-town  to  buy  stuff  for  a  jerkin,  and  Hugh  had  run  south 
to  the  sea  to  watch  the  ships.  So  Lionel  was  left  to  his  own 
devices,  and  what  they  were  none  tried  to  guess  till  evening, 
when  the  brothers  met  again  and  he  was  not  there.  Then  there 
was  hue  and  cry  among  the  hills,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  child 
had  vanished  like  a  cloud.  And  the  month  wore  by,  and  their 
hearts  grew  heavier  day  by  day. 

It  was  in  the  last  week  of  March  that  Hugh  one  morning 
came  red-eyed  to  his  brothers  and  said,  "I  am  going  away,  and 
I  will  not  come  back  until  I  have  found  Lionel.  For  I  can't 
rest." 

"None  of  us  can  do  that,"  said  Ambrose,  "and  we  have 
searched  and  sent  messengers  everywhere.  You  are  too  young 
to  go  alone." 

"I  am  nearly  fourteen,"  said  Hugh,  "and  stronger  than  He- 
riot,  and  even  than  you,  Ambrose,  and  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self and  Lionel  too.  There  are  more  ways  than  one  to  seek, 
and  I'll  go  my  way  while  you  go  yours.  But  I  will  find  him 
or  die."  And  he  looked  with  defiance  at  Ambrose,  and  then 
turned  to  Hobb  and  said  doggedly,  "I'm  going,  Hobb." 

Hobb,  who  himself  sought  the  hills  unwearyingly  day  after 
day,  and  then  sat  up  three  parts  of  the  night  attending  to  the 
duties  of  the  Burgh,   said,   "Go,   and  God  bless  you." 

And  Hugh's  mouth  grew  less  set,  and  he  kissed  his  brothers, 
and  put  his  knife  in  his  belt,  and  took  food  in  his  wallet,  and 
walked  out  of  the  Burgh.  He  followed  the  grass-track  to  the 
north,  and  had  walked  less  than  half-an-hour  when  the  wind 
took  his  cap  and  blew  it  into  the  middle  of  a  pond,  where  it 
lay  soddening  out  of  reach.  So  he  took  off  his  shoes  and  walked 
into  the  pond  to  fetch  it  out,  stirring  up  the  yellow  mud  in 
thick  soft  clouds.  But  as  he  stooped  to  grab  his  cap,  something 
else  stirred  the  mud  in  the  middle,  and  a  body  heaved  itself 
sluggishly  into  view.  At  first  Hugh  thought  it  must  be  the 
body  of  a  sheep  that  had  tumbled  into  the  water,  but  to  his 
amazement  the  sulky  head  of  an  old  man  appeared.  He  was 
barely  distinguishable  from  the  mud  out  of  which  he  had  risen. 

"Drat  the  boys!"  said  the  muddy  man.  "Will  they  never 
be  done  with  disturbing  the  newts  and  me?    Drat  'era,  I  say!" 

"Who  are  you  ?"  demanded  Hugh,  staring  with  all  his  might. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     147 

"Jerry  I  am,  and  this  is  my  pond.  Why  can't  you  leave  me 
in  peace?" 

"The  wind  took  my  cap,"  said  Hugh. 

"Finding's  keepings,"  said  the  muddy  man,  taking  the  cap 
himself,  "and  windfalls  on  this  water  is  mine.  So  I'll  keep  your 
cap,  and  it's  the  second  wind's  brought  me  this  March.  And 
if  you're  in  want  of  another  you'd  best  go  to  where  Wind  lives 
and  ask  him  for  it,  like  t'other  one.  But  he  said  he'd  ask  for 
a  toy  farm  instead." 

"A  toy  farm?"  shouted  Hugh. 

"Go  away  and  don't  deafen  a  body,"  said  Jerry,  and  prepared 
to  sink  again.  But  Hugh  caught  him  by  the  hair  and  said 
fiercely,  "Keep  my  cap  if  you  like,  but  I  won't  let  you  go  until 
you  tell  me  where  my  brother  went." 

"Your  brother  was  it?"  growled  the  muddy  man.  "He  went 
to  High  and  Over,  dancing  like  a  sunbeam." 

"What's  High  and  Over?" 

"Where  Wind  lives." 

"Where's  that?" 

"Find  out,"  mumbled  the  muddy  man ;  and  he  wriggled  him- 
self out  of  Hugh's  clutch  and  buried  himself  like  a  monstrous 
newt  in  the  mud.  And  though  Hugh  groped  and  fumbled 
shoulder-deep  he  could  not  feel  a  trace  of  him. 

"But,"  said  he,  "there's  at  least  a  name  to  go  on."  And 
he  got  out  of  the  pond  and  went  in  search  of  High  and  Over. 
And  his  brothers  waited  in  vain  for  his  return.  And  the  heavi- 
ness of  four  hearts  was  now  divided  between  three,  and  doubled 
because  of  another  brother  lost. 

But  on  the  first  of  April,  which  was  Lionel's  birthday,  Lionel 
came  back.  Or  rather,  Hobb  found  him  in  a  valley  north  of 
his  garden  hill,  when  he  was  wandering  on  one  of  his  forlorn 
searches.  And  when  he  found  him  Hobb  could  not  believe  his 
eyes.  For  the  child  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  prettiest 
plaything  in  the  world.  It  was  a  tiny  farm,  covering  perhaps 
a  quarter  of  an  acre,  with  minute  barns  and  yards  and  stables, 
and  pigmy  livestock  in  the  little  pastures,  and  hand-high  crops 
in  the  little  meadows;  and  smoke  came  from  the  tiny  chimney 
of  the  farmhouse,  and  Lionel  was  drawing  water  from  a  well 
in  a  bucket  the  si/e  of  a  thimble.  And  all  the  colors  were  so 
bright  and  painted  that  the  little  farmstead  seemed  to  have  been 
conceived  of  the  gayest  mind  on  earth.  But  through  his  amaze- 
ment Hobb  had  no  thought  except  for  the  child,  and  he  ran 


148     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

calling  him  by  his  name,  but  Lionel  never  looked  up.  And 
then  Hobb  lifted  him  in  his  arms,  and  embraced  him  closely, 
but  the  child  did  not  respond. 

Then  Hobb  looked  at  him  anxiously,  and  was  so  shocked  that 
he  forgot  the  strange  blithe  little  farm  entirely.  For  Lionel 
was  as  wan  and  wasted  as  though  he  had  been  through  a  fever, 
and  his  rosy  face  was  white,  and  his  merry  eyes  were  melan- 
choly. And  suddenly,  as  Hobb  clasped  him,  he  flung  his  arms 
round  his  big  brother's  neck  and  buried  his  face  in  his  bosom 
and  wept  bitterly. 

Then  Hobb  tried  to  soothe  and  comfort  him,  asking  him  little 
questions  in  a  coaxing  voice — "Where  has  the  child  been? 
Why  did  he  run  away  and  leave  us?  Where  did  he  get  this 
pretty,  wonderful  toy?  Is  he  hurt,  or  hungry?  Does  he  re- 
member it  is  his  birthday?  There  will  be  presents  for  him  at 
the  Burgh,  and  a  cake  for  tea.  Did  Hugh  bring  him  home? 
Has  he  seen  Hugh?    Lai,  Lai,  where  is  Hugh?" 

But  Lionel  answered  none  of  these  questions,  he  only  sobbed 
and  sobbed,  and  suddenly  slipped  out  of  Hobb's  arms,  and 
began  to  play  once  more  with  his  farm,  while  the  tears  ran 
down  his  thin  cheeks.  Presently  he  let  Hobb  take  him  home, 
and  there  Heriot  and  Ambrose  rejoiced  and  sorrowed  over  him. 
For  he  would  scarcely  speak  or  eat,  and  only  shook  his  head  at 
their  questions.  At  Hugh's  name  his  tears  flowed  twice  as 
fast,  but  he  would  tell  them  nothing  of  him.  Very  soon  Hobb 
carried  him  to  bed,  and  in  undressing  him  noticed  that  he  had 
no  shirt.  This  too  Lionel  would  not  explain,  and  Hobb  ceased 
troubling  him  with  talk,  and  knelt  and  prayed  by  him,  and 
laid  him  down  to  sleep,  hoping  that  in  the  morning  he  would  be 
better.  But  morning  brought  no  change.  Lionel  from  that 
day  was  given  up  to  grief.  Each  morning  he  went  dejectedly 
to  play  with  his  marvelous  toy  in  the  valley,  but  how  he  came 
by  it  he  would  not  say. 

Towards  the  end  of  April  Heriot  came  to  Hobb  and  Am- 
brose and  said,  "I  cannot  bear  this;  Lionel  is  home  and  we  are 
none  the  better  for  it,  and  Hugh  is  gone  and  we  are  all  the 
worse.  Hugh  is  capable  of  looking  after  himself,  yet  perhaps 
danger  has  befallen  him ;  and  even  if  not,  he  will  roam  the 
country  fruitlessly  for  months,  and  it  may  be  years ;  since  Lionel 
is  restored  and  he  does  not  know  it.  The  Burgh  can  spare  me 
better  than  it  can  you,  and  I  will  ride  abroad  and  see  if  I  can 
find  him,  and  return  in  seven  days,  whether  or  no." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     149 

So  they  embraced  him,  and  he  departed.  But  at  the  end 
of  seven  days  he  did  not  appear.  And  Ambrose  and  Hobb 
were  dismayed  at  his  vanishing  like  the  others,  and  so  heavy 
a  gloom  descended  on  the  Burgh  that  each  could  scarcely  have 
endured  it  without  the  other.  And  every  day  they  went  forth 
in  search  of  Hugh  and  Heriot,  or  of  traces  of  them,  but  found 
none. 

Then  it  happened  that  on  the  first  of  May,  which  was 
Hugh's  birthday,  Hobb,  wandering  further  north  than  usual, 
to  the  brow  of  the  great  ridge  east  of  the  Ouse,  heard  a  wild 
roaring  and  bellowing  on  the  Downs;  or  rather,  it  was  tvv^o 
separate  roarings,  as  you  may  sometimes  hear  two  separate 
storms  thundering  at  once  over  two  ranges  of  hills.  And  in 
astonishment  he  went  first  to  Beddingham,  and  there,  bound 
by  an  iron  chain  to  a  stake  beside  a  pond,  he  found  a  mighty 
lion,  as  white  as  a  young  lamb.  But  he  had  not  a  lamb's  meek- 
ness, for  he  ramped  and  raved  in  a  great  circle  around  the 
stake,  and  his  open  throat  set  in  his  shaggy  mane  looked  like 
the  red  sun  seen  upon  white  mist.  Hobb  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  turned  towards  Ilford,  where  the  second  roaring  sought 
to  outdo  the  first.  And  there  beside  another  ppnd  he  found 
another  stake  and  chain,  and  a  lion  exactly  similar,  except 
that  he  was  as  red  as  a  rose.  But  he  had  not  a  rose's  sweet- 
ness, for  he  snarled  and  leaped  with  fury  at  the  end  of  his 
chain,  and  his  flashing  teeth  under  his  red  muzzle  looked  like 
the  blossom  of  the  scarlet  runner. 

And  then,  turning  about  for  an  explanation  of  these  won- 
ders, Hobb  saw  what  drove  them  from  his  mind — the  figure 
of  Hugh  crouched  in  a  little  hollow,  and  shaking  like  a  leaf. 
Hobb  ran  towards  him  with  a  shout,  and  at  the  shout  Hugh 
leaped  to  his  feet,  with  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  hare,  and  looked  on 
all  sides  as  though  seeking  where  to  hide.  But  Hobb  was  soon 
beside  him,  with  his  arm  round  the  boy's  shoulder,  and  gaz- 
ing earnestly  into  his  face. 

"Why,  lad,"  said  he,  "do  j'ou  not  know  me  again?" 

Hugh  stole  a  glance  at  him,  and  suddenly  smiled  and  nodded, 
and  tried  to  answer,  but  could  not  for  the  chattering  of  his 
teeth.  And  he  clung  hard  to  his  brother's  side,  and  shuddered 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Are  you  ill,  Hugh?"  Hobb  asked  him,  bewildered  at  the 
boy's  unlikeness  to  himself. 

"No,  Hobb,"  said  Hugh,  "but  need  we  stay  here  now?" 


150    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Why,  no,"  said  Hobb  gently,  "we  will  go  when  you  like. 
Where  do  these  beasts  come  from?" 

Hugh  set  his  lips  and  began  to  move  away. 

Hobb  went  beside  him  and  said,  "Lionel  is  home,  but  Heriot 
is  lost.     Have  you  seen  Heriot?" 

Hugh  hesitated,  and  then  stammered,  "No,  I  have  not  seen 
him." 

And  Hobb  knew  that  he  had  lied,  Hugh  who  had  always 
been  as  fearless  of  the  truth  as  of  anything  else.  So  after 
that  he  asked  no  more,  fearing  to  get  another  lie  for  an  answer ; 
and  he  led  Hugh  home,  supporting  him  with  his  arm,  for  he 
was  full  of  fits  and  starts  and  shiverings.  If  a  lump  of  chalk 
rolled  under  his  shoe  he  blanched  and  cried,  "What's  that?" 
and  once  when  a  field-mouse  ran  across  the  path  he  swooned. 
Then  Hobb,  opening  his  tunic  at  the  neck,  saw  that  nothing 
was  between  it  and  his  body;  for  he,  like  Lionel,  was  with- 
out his  shirt. 

They  got  back  to  the  Burgh,  and  Hobb  found  Ambrose 
and  told  him  how  it  was.  And  Ambrose  came  to  Hugh  and 
talked  with  him,  and  turned  away  with  knitted  brows.  For 
here  was  a  puzzle  not  dealt  with  in  his  books.  And  May  went 
by  in  miserable  fashion,  with  Lionel  spending  the  days  in 
playing  mournfully  beside  his  farm,  and  Hugh  in  cowering 
abjectly  between  his  lions.  And  sometimes  Ambrose  and  Hobb, 
after  searching  for  Heriot  or  news  of  him,  or  spending  their 
spirits  in  endeavoring  to  hearten  their  two  brothers,  or  to 
elicit  from  them  something  that  should  give  them  the  key  to 
the  mystery,  would  meet  in  Hobb's  hill-garden,  where  seemed 
to  be  the  only  peace  and  loveliness  left  upon  earth.  And  Hobb 
would  weed  and  tend  his  neglected  flowers,  and  they  bloomed 
for  him  as  though  they  knew  he  loved  them — as  indeed  they 
did.  Only  his  golden  rose-tree  would  not  flourish,  but  this 
small  sorrow  was  unguessed  by  Ambrose. 

One  evening  as  they  sat  in  the  garden  in  the  last  week  of 
May,  Ambrose  said  to  his  brother,  "I  have  been  thinking, 
Hobb,  that  at  all  costs  Heriot  must  be  found,  and  not  for 
his  own  sake  only.  He  is  younger  than  we,  and  nearer  in 
spirft  to  the  boys;  and  he  may  be  able  to  help  them  as  we  can- 
not. For  if  this  goes  on,  Hugh  will  die  of  his  fears  and 
Lionel  of  his  melancholy.  You  must  stay  and  administer  our 
affairs  as  usual,  and  look  after  the  boys;  and  I  will  go  further 
afield  in  search  of  Heriot." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     151 

Hobb  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  sighed  and 
said,  "No  good  has  come  of  these  seekings.  Our  lads  returned 
of  themselves,  as  Heriot  may.  And  their  return  was  worse 
than  anything  we  feared  of  their  absence,  as,  if  he  come  back, 
I  pray  Heriot's  will  not  be.  And  for  you,  Ambrose — "  But 
then  he  paused,  not  saying  what  was  in  his  mind.  And  Am- 
brose said,  "Do  not  be  afraid  for  me.  These  boys  are  young, 
and  I  am  older  than  my  years.  And  though  I  cannot  face 
danger  with  a  stouter  heart  than  our  brothers,  I  can  perhaps 
see  into  it  a  little  further  than  they.  And  foresight  is  some- 
times a  still  better  tool  than  courage." 

Then  he  took  Hobb's  hand  in  his,  and  they  gripped  with  the 
grip  of  men  who  love  each  other;  and  Ambrose  went  out 
of  the  garden,  and  Hobb  was  left  alone.  For  Hugh  and 
Lionel  were  companions  to  none  but  themselves. 

But  on  the  first  of  June  Hobb,  coming  to  the  gate  of  his 
garden,  saw  with  surprise  a  peacock  strutting  on  the  hill- 
brow,  his  fan  spread  in  the  sun,  a  luster  of  green  and  blue 
and  gold,  and  behind  him  was  another,  and  further  south 
three  more.  So  Hobb  went  out  to  look  at  them,  and  found 
not  five  but  fifty  peacocks  sweeping  the  Downs  with  their 
heavy  trains,  or  opening  and  shutting  them  like  gigantic  magi- 
cal flowers.  Following  the  throng  of  birds,  he  came  shortly 
to  a  barn  already  known  to  him,  but  he  had  never  seen  it  as 
he  saw  it  now.  For  the  roof  was  crowded  with  peacocks, 
and  peacocks  strayed  in  flocks  within  and  without;  and  sit- 
ting in  the  doorway  was  Heriot,  the  sight  of  whom  so  over- 
joyed his  brother  that  Hobb  forgot  the  thousand  peacocks  in 
the  one  man.  And  he  made  speed  to  greet  him,  but  within 
a  few  yards  halted  full  of  doubt.  For  was  this  Heriot?  He 
had  Heriot's  air  and  attitude,  yet  the  grace  was  gone  from 
his  body;  and  Heriot's  features,  surely,  but  the  beauty  had 
melted  away  like  morning  dew.  And  his  dress,  which  had 
always  been  orderly  and  beautiful,  was  neglected ;  so  that  under 
the  half-laced  jerkin  Hobb  saw  that  he  was  shirtless.  Yet 
after  the  first  moment's  shock,  he  knew  this  gaunt  and  ugly 
youth  was  Heriot.  And  Heriot  seeing  him  coming  hung  his 
head,  and  made  a  shamed  movement  of  retreat  into  the  shadow 
of  the  barn.  But  Hobb  hurried  to  him,  and  took  him  by 
the  shoulders,  and  beheld  him  with  the  eyes  of  love  which 
always  find  its  object  beautiful.  Then  the  flush  faded  from 
Heriot's  haggard  cheeks,   and   he   looked   as   full  at  Hobb   as 


152    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Hobb  at  him.  And  as  at  the  steadfast  meeting  of  eyes  men  see 
no  longer  the  physical  appearance,  but  for  an  eternal  instance 
the  appearance  of  the  soul,  these  brothers  knew  that  they  were 
to  each  other  what  they  had  always  been.  And  Heriot  saw 
that  Hobb  was  full  of  questions,  and  he  laid  his  hand  over 
Hobb's  mouth  and  said,  "Hobb,  do  not  ask  me  anything,  for 
I  can  tell  you  nothing." 

"Neither  of  yourself  nor  of  Ambrose?"  said  Hobb. 

"Nothing,"  repeated  Heriot. 

So  Hobb  left  his  questions  unspoken,  and  as  they  went 
home  together  told  Heriot  of  Plugh's  return,  and  what  had 
happened  to  him.  And  Heriot  heard  it  without  comment. 
And  in  the  evening,  when  Lionel  and  Hugh  returned,  they 
had  nothing  to  say  to  Heriot,  nor  he  to  them ;  and  it  seemed 
to  Hobb  that  this  was  because  between  these  three  ever}^thing 
waSj  understood. 

It  was  a  lonely  June  for  Hobb,  with  his  eldest  brother 
away,  and  the  three  others  spending  all  their  days  beside  their 
strange  possessions,  which  brought  them  no  tittle  of  joy;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  his  garden  he  would  have  felt  utterly 
bereft.  Yet  here  too  failure  sat  heavily  on  his  heart;  for  on 
many  a  night  he  saw  upon  his  bush  a  bud  that  promised  per- 
fection to  come,  and  in  the  morning  it  hung  dead  and  rotten 
on  its  stem. 

So  the  month  wore  on,  and  Hobb  began  to  feel  that  the 
Burgh,  where  now  his  brothers  only  came  to  sleep,  was  a  dead 
shell,  too  desolate  to  inhabit  if  Ambrose  did  not  soon  return. 
And  he  was  impelled  to  go  in  search  of  him,  yet  decided  to 
remain  until  Ambrose's  birthday  had  dawned,  for  had  not  their 
birthdays  brought  his  three  youngest  brothers  home?  And  it 
might  be  so  with  Ambrose.     And  so  it  was. 

For  on  the  first  of  July,  before  going  to  his  garden,  he  stayed 
at  Heriot's  barn  to  try  to  induce  him  to  leave  his  peacocks  for 
once,  and  spend  the  day  with  him  in  search  of  Ambrose;  but 
Heriot,  who  was  feeding  his  fowl,  never  looked  up,  and  said 
sadly,  "What  need  to  seek  Ambrose  to-day?  Ambrose  has  re- 
turned," 

"Have  you  seen  him?*'  cried  Hobb  joyfullv. 

"Early  this  morning,"  said  Heriot. 

"Where?" 

"Down  yonder  in  Poverty  Bottom,"  said  Heriot,  pointing 
south  of  his  barn  to  a  hollow  that  went  by  that  name.     For 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     153 

there  was  a  dismal  habitation  that  had  fallen  into  decay^  a 
skeleton  of  a  hut  with  only  two  rotting  walls,  and  a  riddled 
thatch  for  a  roof.  And  it  was  worse  than  no  habitation  at  all, 
for  what  might  have  been  a  green  and  lovely  vale  was  made 
desolate  and  rank  with  disused  things,  rusting  among  the  lum- 
ber of  bricks  and  nettles.  It  was  enough  to  have  been  there 
once  never  to  go  again.    And  Hobb  had  been  there  once. 

But  now,  at  Heriot's  tidings,  he  ran  down  the  hill  a  second 
time  as  though  it  led  to  Paradise,  calling  Ambrose  as  he  went. 
And  getting  no  answer  he  began  to  fear  that  either  Heriot  was 
mistaken,  or  Ambrose  had  gone  away.  His  fears  were  un- 
founded, for  coming  to  the  Bottom  he  found  Ambrose;  yet 
he  had  to  look  twice  to  make  sure  it  was  he.  For  he  was 
dressed  only  in  rags,  and  less  in  rags  than  nakedness;  and  his 
skin  was  dirty  and  his  hair  unkempt.  He  was  stooping  about 
the  ground  gathering  flints  which  he  dropped  into  a  battered 
pail  he  had  found  among  the  litter;  but  as  the  pail  had  no 
bottom  the  flints  dropped  through,  and  a  small  trail  of  them 
marked   his  passage  over  the  rank   grass. 

Hobb  strode  towards  him  with  dread  in  his  bosom,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  Ambrose's  wild  head,  saying  his  name  again. 
And  at  this  his  brother  looked  up  and  eyed  him  childishly,  and 
said  "Who  is  Ambrose?"  And  then  the  dread  in  Hobb  took 
a  definite  shape,  and  he  saw  with  horror  that  Ambrose  had  lost 
his  wits.  At  that  knowledge,  and  the  sight  of  his  neglected 
body  and  pitiful  foolish  smile,  Hobb  turned  away  and  sobbed. 
But  Ambrose  with  a  little  random  laugh  continued  to  drop 
flints  in  his  bottomless  bucket.  And  no  word  of  Hobb's  could 
win  him  from  that  place. 

Then  Hobb  went  back  to  the  Burgh  alone,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  thought.  He  thought  of  the  evil  which 
had  fallen  upon  his  house,  the  nature  of  which  was  past  his 
brothers'  telh'ng,  and  far  beyond  his  guessing.  And  he  said 
to  himself,  "I  have  done  the  best  I  could  in  governing  the 
affairs  of  the  Burgh  and  of  our  people,  since  the  others  were 
younger  than  I ;  but  I  see  I  have  been  selfish,  keeping  safety 
for  my  portion  while  they  went  into  danger.  And  now  there 
is  none  to  set  this  evil  right  but  I,  and  if  I  can  I  must  follow 
the  way  they  went,  and  do  better  than  they  at  the  end  of  it. 
And  if  I  fail — as  how  should  I  succeed  where  they  have  not? — 
and  if  like  them  I  too  must  suffer  the  dreadful  loss  of  a  part 
of  myself,  let  it  be  so,  and  I  shall  at  least  fare  as  they  have 


154     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

fared,  and  we  will  share  an  equal  fate.  Though  what  I 
have  to  lose  I  know  not,  to  match  their  bright  and  noble 
qualities." 

Then  he  called  his  steward,  and  gave  all  the  affairs  of  the 
Burgh  into  his  hands,  and  bade  him  have  an  eye  to  his  brothers 
as  far  as  possible,  and  to  consult  Heriot  in  any  need,  since 
he  was  the  only  one  who  could  in  the  least  be  relied  on.  And 
then  he  walked  out  of  the  Burgh  as  he  was,  and  went  where 
his  feet  took  him.  He  had  not  been  walking  half-an-hour 
when  a  sudden  blast  of  wind  tore  the  cap  from  his  head,  and 
blew  it  into  the  very  middle  of  a  pond. 

Now  the  pond  was  exceedingly  muddy,  and  as  it  seemed 
to  Hobb  rather  deep,  and  he  was  wondering  whether  his  old 
cap  were  worth  wading  for,  and  had  almost  decided  to  aban- 
don it,  when  he  saw  a  skinny  yellow  arm,  like  a  frog's  leg, 
stretch  up  through  the  water,  and  a  hand  that  dripped  with 
slime  grope  for  his  cap.  With  three  strides  he  was  in  the 
pond,  and  he  caught  the  cap  and  the  hand  together  in  his 
fist.  The  hand  writhed  in  his,  but  Hobb  was  too  strong  for  it; 
and  with  a  mighty  tug  he  dragged  first  the  shoulder  and  then 
the  head  belonging  to  the  hand  into  view.  They  were  the 
shoulder  and  head  of  the  muddy  man  whom  you,  dear  maidens, 
have  seen  once  before  in  this  tale,  but  whom  Hobb  had  never 
seen  till  then.  And  Jerry  said,  "Drat  these  losers  of  caps! 
will  they  never  be  done  with  disturbing  the  newts  and  me? 
'Tis  the  fifth  in  a  summer.  And  first  there's  one  with  a  step 
like  a  wagtail,  and  next  there's  one  as  bold  as  a  hawk,  and  after 
him  one  as  comely  as  a  wild  swan,  and  last  was  one  as  wise 
as  an  owl.  And  now  there's  this  one  with  nothing  particular 
to  him,  but  he  grips  as  hard  as  all  the  rest  rolled  into  one. 
Drat  these  cap-losers!" 

Then  Hobb  who,  for  all  his  surprise  to  begin  with,  and 
his  increase  of  excitement  as  the  muddy  creature  spoke,  had 
never  slackened  his  grasp,  said,  "Old  man,  you  are  welcome 
to  my  cap  if  you  will  tell  me  what  happened  to  the  wearers 
of  the  four  other  caps  after  they  left  you." 

"How  do  I  know  what  happened  to  'em?"  growled  the 
muddy  man.  "For  they  all  went  to  High  and  Over,  and  after 
that  'twas  nobody's  business  but  Wind's,  who  lives  there." 

"Where's  High  and  Over?"  said  Hobb. 

"Find  out,"  said  the  muddy  man,  and  gave  a  wriggle  that 
did  him  no  good. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     155 

"I  will,"  said  Hobb,  "for  you  shall  tell  me."  And  he  looked 
so  sternly  at  the  muddy  man  that  Jerry  cringed,  moaning: 

"I  thought  by  his  voice  'twas  a  turtle,  but  I  see  by  his  eye 
'tis  an  eagle.  If  you  must  know  you  must.  And  south  of 
Cradle  Hill  that's  south  of  Pinchem  that's  south  of  Hobb's 
Hawth  that's  south  of  the  Burgh  that's  south  of  this  pond  is 
where  High  and  Over  is.     And  I'll  thank  you  to  let  me  go." 

Nevertheless,  when  Hobb  released  him  Jerry  forgot  the 
thanks  and  disappeared  into  the  mud  taking  the  cap  with  him. 
But  Hobb  did  not  care  for  his  thanks.  He  hurried  south  as 
fast  as  his  feet  would  carry  him,  going  by  the  places  he  knew 
and  then  by  those  he  did  not,  till  he  came  at  nightfall  to  High 
and  Over. 

And  on  High  and  Over  a  great  wind  was  blowing  from 
all  the  four  quarters  of  heaven  at  once.  And  Hobb  was 
caught  up  in  the  crossways  of  the  wind,  and  turned  about 
and  about  till  he  was  dizzy,  and  all  his  thoughts  were  churning 
in  his  brain,  so  that  he  could  not  tell  one  from  the  other. 
And  at  the  very  crisis  of  the  churning  a  voice  in  the  wind  from 
the  north  roared  in  his  ear: 

"What  do  you  want  that  you  lack?" 

And  a  voice  from  the  south  murmured,  "What  is  the  wish 
of  your  heart?" 

And  a  voice  from  the  west  sighed,  "WTiat  is  it  that  life 
has  not  given  you?" 

And  a  voice  from  the  east  shrieked,  "What  will  you  have, 
and  lose  yourself  to  have?" 

And  Hobb  forgot  his  brothers  and  why  he  was  there,  he 
forgot  everything  but  the  dream  of  his  soul  which  had  been 
churned  uppermost  in  that  turmoil,  and  he  cried  aloud,  "A 
golden  rose!" 

Then  the  four  voices  together  roared  and  murmured  and 
sighed  and  shrieked,  "Open  Winkins!  Open  Winkins!  Open 
Winkins!  Open  Winkins!"  And  the  tumult  ceased  with  a 
shock,  and  the  shock  of  silence  overwhelmed  Hobb  with  sick- 
ness and  darkness,  and  his  senses  deserted  him.  As  he  became 
unconscious  he  seemed  to  be,  not  falling  to  earth,  but  rising 
in  the  air. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  he  was  lying  on  his  back  in  a 
strange  world,  a  world  of  trees,  whose  noble  trunks  rose  up 
as  though  they  were  columns  of  the  sky,  but  their  heaven 
was  a  green  one,  shutting  out  daylight,  yet  enclosing  a  lumi- 


156    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

nous  haunted  air  of  its  own.  Such  forests  were  unknown  in 
Hobb's  open  barren  land,  and  this  alone  would  have  made  his 
coming  to  his  senses  appear  rather  to  be  a  coming  away  from 
them.  But  he  scarcely  noticed  his  surroundings,  he  was  only 
vaguely  aware  of  them  as  the  strange  and  beautiful  setting 
of  the  strangest  and  most  beautiful  thing  he  had  ever  seen. 
For  he  was  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the  loveliest  woman  in 
the  world.  She  was  bending  above  him,  tall  and  slim  and 
supple,  her  perfect  body  clad  in  a  deep  black  gown,  the  hem 
and  bosom  of  which  were  embroidered  with  celandines,  and 
it  had  a  golden  belt  and  was  lined  with  gold,  as  he  could  see 
when  the  loose  sleeves  fell  open  on  her  round  and  slender 
arms;  and  the  bodice  of  the  gown  hung  a  little  away  from 
her  stooping  body,  and  was  embroidered  inside,  as  well  as  out- 
side, with  celandines,  which  made  reflections  on  her  white 
neck,  as  they  will  on  a  pure  pool  where  they  lean  to  watch 
their  April  loveliness.  Her  skin  was  as  creamy  as  the  petals 
of  a  burnet  rose,  and  her  eyes  were  the  color  of  peat-smoke, 
and  her  hair  was  as  soft  as  spun  silk  and  fell  in  two  great 
shining  waves  of  the  purest  gold  over  her  bosom  as  she  bent 
above  him,  and  lay  on  the  earth  like  golden  grass  on  green 
water.  A  tress  of  the  hair  had  flowed  across  his  hand.  And 
about  her  small  fine  head  it  was  bound  with  a  black  fillet,  a 
narrow  coil  so  sleek  and  glossy  that  it  was  touched  with  silver 
lights,  and  this  intense  blackness  made  the  gold  of  her  head 
more  dazzling.  And  Hobb  lay  there  bewildered  under  the 
spell  of  her  loveliness,  asking  nothing  but  to  lie  and  gaze  at 
it  for  ever. 

But  presently  as  he  did  not  move  she  did,  sinking  upon  her 
knees  and  stooping  closer  so  that  her  breast  nearly  rested 
on  his  own,  and  she  put  her  white  hand  softly  on  his  fore- 
head, and  the  smoke  of  her  eyes  was  washed  with  tears  that 
did  not  fall,  and  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice  that  fell  on 
his  ears  like  music  heard  in  a  dream,  "Oh,  stranger,  if  you 
are  not  dying,  speak  and  move." 

Then  Hobb  raised  himself  slowly  on  his  elbow,  and  as  she 
did  not  stir  their  faces  were  brought  very  close  together;  and 
not  for  an  instant  had  they  taken  their  eyes  from  each  other. 
And  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  not  knowing  either  his  voice  or 
his  own  words,  "I  am  not  dying,  but  I  think  I  must  be  dead." 
And  suddenly  the  woman  broke  into  a  rain  of  tears,  and  she 
sank  into  his  arms  with  her  own  about  his  neck,  and  she  wept 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     157 

upon  his  heart  as  though  her  own  were  breaking.  After  a  few 
moments  she  lifted  her  head  and  Hobb  bent  his  to  meet  her 
quivering  mouth.  But  before  his  lips  touched  hers  she  tore 
herself  from  his  hold  and  fled  away  through  the  trees. 

Hobb  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said 
criedj  "Love !  don't  be  afraid !"  and  he  made  no  attempt  to 
follow  her,  but  stood  where  he  was.  He  saw  her  halt  in  the 
distance,  and  turn,  and  hesitate,  and  struggle  with  herself  as 
to  her  coming  or  going.  At  last  she  decided  for  the  former, 
and  came  slowly  between  the  pillars  of  the  trees  until  she 
stood  but  a  few  paces  from  him  with  lowered  lids.  And  she 
said  sweetly,  "Forgive  me,  stranger.  But  I  found  you  here 
like  one  dead,  and  when  you  opened  your  eyes  the  fear  was 
still  on  me,  and  when  you  moved  and  spoke  the  relief  was 
too  great,  and  I  forgot  myself  and  did  what  I  did." 

Then  Hobb  said  gently,  but  with  his  heart  beating  on  his 
ribs  as  fast  as  a  swallow's  wings  beat  the  air,  "I  thought  you 
did  what  you  did  because  at  that  moment  you  knew,  and  I 
knew  also,  that  it  was  your  right  for  ever  to  weep  and  to 
laugh  on  my  heart,  and  mine  to  bear  for  ever  your  laughing 
and  weeping.  But  if  it  was  not  with  you  as  with  me,  say  so, 
and  I  will  go  away  and  not  trouble  you  or  your  strange  woods 
again." 

Then  the  woman  came  quickly  to  him,  and  seized  his  hands 
saying,  half  agitated,  half  commanding,  "It  was  with  me  as 
with  you.  And  you  shall  stay  with  me  for  ever  in  these  woods, 
and  I  will  give  you  the  desire  of  your  life." 

"And  what  shall  I  give  you?"  said  Hobb. 

"Whatever  is  nearest  to  yourself,"  she  M^hispered,  "the  dear- 
est treasure  of  your  soul."  And  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes 
full  of  passions  which  he  could  not  fathom,  but  among  them 
he  saw  terror.  And  with  great  tenderness  he  drew  her  once 
more  to  his  heart,  putting  his  strong  and  steady  arms  around 
her  like  a  shield,  and  he  said : 

"Love  whose  name  I  do  not  know,  what  is  nearer  to  my- 
self than  you,  what  dearer  treasure  has  my  soul  than  you? 
If  I  am  to  give  you  this,  it  is  yourself  I  must  give  you;  and 
I  will  restore  to  you  whatever  it  is  that  you  have  lost  through 
the  agony  in  your  soul.  Be  at  peace,  my  love  whose  name  I 
do  not  know."  And  holding  her  closely  to  him  he  bent  his 
head  and  kissed  her  lips;  and  a  great  shudder  passed  through 
her,  and  then  she  lay  still  in  his  arms,  with  her  strange  eyes 


158     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

half-closed,  and  slow  tears  welling  between  the  lids  and  hang- 
ing on  her  cheeks  like  the  rain  on  the  rose.  And  she  let  him 
quiet  her  with  his  big  hands  that  were  so  used  to  care  for 
flowers.  Presently  she  lifted  his  right  hand  to  her  mouth, 
and  kissed  it  before  he  could  prevent  her.  Next  she  drew 
herself  a  little  away  from  him,  hanging  back  in  his  arms  and 
gazing  into  his  face  as  though  her  soul  were  all  a  question  and 
his  was  the  answer  that  she  could  not  wholly  read.  And  last 
she  broke  away  from  him  with  a  strange  laugh  that  ended  on 
a  sob. 

Hobb  said,  "Will  you  not  tell  me  what  makes  you  un- 
happy?" 

"I  have  no  unhappiness,"  she  answered,  and  quenched  her 
sob  with  a  smile  as  strange  as  her  laugh.  "My  foolish  lover, 
are  you  amazed  that  when  her  hour  comes  a  woman  knows  not 
whether  she  is  happy  or  unhappy?  Oh,  when  joy  is  so  great 
that  it  has  come  full  circle  with  pain,  what  wonder  that  laughter 
and  weeping  are  one?" 

And  Hobb  believed  her,  for  ever  since  he  had  opened  his 
eyes  upon  her,  he  had  felt  in  his  own  heart  more  joy  than 
he  could  bear;  and  he  knew  that  for  this  there  is  no  remedy 
except  to  find  a  second  heart  to  help  in  the  bearing.  And  he 
knew  it  was  the  same  with  her.  But  now  he  saw  that  she 
was  free  for  awhile  from  the  excess  of  joy;  and  indeed  these 
respites  must  happen  even  to  lovers  for  their  own  sakes,  lest 
they  sink  beneath  the  heavenly  burden  of  their  hearts.  And 
her  smile  was  like  the  diver's  rise  from  his  enchanted  deeps 
to  take  again  the  common  breath  of  man;  and  Hobb  also 
smiled  and  said,  "Come  now,  and  tell  me  your  name.  For 
though  love  needs  none  for  its  object,  I  think  the  name  itself 
is  eager  to  be  made  known  and  loved  beyond  all  other  names 
for  love's  sake.  As  I  will  love  yours,  whatever  it  be." 
"My  name,"  she  said,  "is  Margaret." 

"It  is  an  easy  name  to  love,"  said  Hobb,  "for  its  own  sake." 
"And  what  is  yours?"  asked  she. 

And  Hobb's  smile  broadened  as  he  answered,  "Try  to  love 
it,  for  my  sake.  For  it  is  Hobb.  Yet  it  is  as  fittting  to  me, 
who  am  as  plain  as  my  name,  as  your  lovely  name  is  fitting 
to  you." 

She  cast  a  quick  sly  look  at  him  and  said,  "If  love  knows 
not  how  to  distinguish  between  joy  and  pain,  since  all  that 
comes  from  the  heart  of  love  is  joy,  neither  can  it  tell  the 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     159 

plain  from  the  beautiful,  since  all  that  comes  under  the  eye 
of  love  is  beauty.  And  I  will  find  all  things  beautiful  in  my 
lover,  from  his  name  to  the  mole  on  his  cheek." 

For  I  know  not,  dear  maidens,  whether  in  describing  him 
I  had  mentioned  this  peculiarity  of  Hobb's. 

(Jessica:     You  hadn't  described  him  at  all. 

Martin  :     Well,  now  the  omission  is  remedied. 

Jessica:  Oh  fie!  as  though  it  were  enough  to  say  the  man 
had  a  mole  on  his  left  cheek! 

Martin:  Dear  Mistress  Jessica,  did  I  say  it  was  his  left 
cheek  ? 

Jessica:     Why — why! — where  else  would  it  be? 

Martin:  Nowhere  else,  on  my  honor.  It  was  his  left 
cheek.) 

Then  Hobb  said  to  Margaret,  "What  place  is  this?" 

"It  is  called  Open  Winkins,"  said  she,  and  at  the  name  he 
started  to  his  feet,  remembering  much  that  he  had  forgotten. 
She  looked  at  him  anxiously  and  cajolingly  and  said,  "You  are 
not  going  away?"  But  he  hardly  heard  her  question.  "Mar- 
garet," he  said,  "I  have  come  from  a  place  that  may  be  far 
or  near,  for  I  do  not  know  how  I  came;  but  I  think  it  must 
be  far,  since  I  never  saw  this  forest,  or  even  heard  of  it,  till 
a  moment  before  my  coming.  But  I  am  seeking  a  clue  to  a 
trouble  that  has  come  upon  me  this  year,  and  I  think  the  clue 
may  be  here.  And  now  tell  me,  have  you  in  these  last  four 
months  seen  in  these  woods  anything  of  your  people  that  are  my 
brothers? — a  child  that  once  was  merry,  and  a  boy  that  once 
was  brave,  and  a  youth  that  once  was  beautiful,  and  a  young 
man  that  once  was  wise?  Have  these  ever  been  to  Open 
Winkins?" 

Margaret  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  and  said,  "If  they 
have,  I  have  not  seen  them  here.  And  I  think  they  could  not 
have  been  here  without  my  knowledge.  For  no  one  lives  here 
but  I,  and  I  live  nowhere  else." 

Hobb  sighed  and  said,  "I  had  hoped  otherwise.  For,  dear, 
I  cannot  rest  until  I  have  helped  them."  Then  he  told  her 
as  much  as  he  knew  of  his  four  brothers;  and  her  face  clouded 
as  he  spoke,  and  her  eyes  looked  hurt  and  angry  by  turns,  and 
her  beautiful  mouth  turned  sulky.  So  then  Hobb  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  said,  "Do  not  be  too  troubled,  for  I  know  I 


i6o    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

shall  presently  find  the  cause  and  cure  of  these  boys'  ills." 
But  Margaret  pushed  his  arm  away  and  rose  restlessly  to  her 
feet,  and  paced  up  and  down,  muttering,  "What  do  I  care  for 
these  boys?  It  is  not  for  them  I  am  troubled,  but  for  myself 
and  you." 

"For  us?"  said  Hobb.  "How  can  trouble  touch  us  who  love 
each  other?" 

At  this  Margaret  threw  herself  on  the  grass  beside  him,  and 
laid  her  head  against  his  knee,  and  drew  his  hands  to  her, 
pressing  them  against  her  eyes  and  lips  and  throat  and  bosom 
as  though  she  would  never  let  them  go ;  and  through  her  kisses 
she  whispered  passionately,  "Do  you  love  me?  do  you  truly  love 
me?  Oh,  if  you  love  me  do  not  go  away  immediately.  For  I 
have  only  just  found  you,  but  your  brothers  have  had  you  all 
their  lives.  And  presently  you  shall  go  where  you  please  for 
their  sakes,  but  now  stay  a  little  in  this  wood  for  mine.  Stay 
a  month  with  me,  only  a  month!  oh,  my  heart,  is  a  month 
much  to  ask  when  you  and  I  found  each  other  but  an  hour 
ago?  For  this  time  of  love  will  never  come  again,  and  what- 
ever other  times  there  are  to  follow,  if  you  go  now  you  will  be 
shutting  your  eyes  upon  the  lovely  dawn  just  as  the  sun  is 
rising  through  the  colors.  And  when  you  return,  you  will 
return  perhaps  to  love's  high-noon,  but  you  will  have  missed 
the  dawn  for  ever."  And  then  she  lifted  her  prone  body  a 
little  higher  until  it  rested  once  more  in  the  curve  of  his  arm 
against  his  heart,  and  she  lay  with  her  white  face  upturned 
to  his,  and  her  dark  soft  eyes  full  of  passion  and  pleading, 
and  she  put  up  her  fingers  to  caress  his  cheek,  and  whispered, 
"Give  me  my  little  month,  oh,  my  heart,  and  at  the  end  of  it 
I  will  give  you  your  soul's  desire." 

And  not  Hobb  or  any  man  could  have  resisted  her. 

So  he  promised  to  remain  with  her  in  Open  Winkins,  and 
not  to  go  further  on  his  quest  till  the  next  moon.  And  indeed, 
with  all  time  before  and  behind  him  it  did  not  seem  much 
to  promise,  nor  did  he  think  it  could  hurt  his  brothers'  case. 
But  the  kernel  of  it  was  that  he  longed  to  make  the  promise, 
and  could  not  do  otherwise  than  make  the  promise,  and  so, 
in  short,  he  made  the  promise. 

Then  Margaret  led  him  to  two  small  lodges  on  the  skirts 
of  the  forest ;  they  were  made  of  round  logs,  with  moss  and 
lichen  still  upon  them,  and  they  were  overgrown  with  the 
loveliest  growths  of  summer — with  blackberry  blossoms,  a  won- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCKARD     i6i 

derful  ghostly  white,  spread  over  the  bushes  like  fairies'  linen 
out  to  dry,  and  wild  roses  more  than  were  in  any  other  lovers' 
forest  on  earth,  and  the  maddest  sweetest  confusion  of  honey- 
suckle jou  ever  saw.  Within,  the  rooms  were  strewn  with 
green  rushes,  and  hung  with  green  cloths  on  which  Margaret 
had  embroidered  all  the  flowers  and  berries  in  their  seasons, 
from  the  first  small  violets  blue  and  white  to  the  last  spindle- 
berries  with  their  orange  hearts  splitting  their  rosy  rinds.  And 
there  was  nothing  else  under  each  roof  but  a  round  beech- 
stump  for  a  stool,  and  a  coffer  of  carved  oak  with  metal  locks, 
and  a  low  mattress  stuffed  with  lamb's-fleece  picked  from  the 
thorns,  and  pillows  filled  with  thistledown ;  and  each  couch  had 
a  green  covering  worked  with  waterlily  leaves  and  white  and 
golden  lilies.  "These  are  the  Pilleygreen  Lodges,"  said  she, 
"and  one  is  mine  and  one  is  yours;  and  when  we  want  cover 
we  will  find  it  here,  but  when  we  do  not  we  will  eat  and 
sleep  in  the  open." 

And  so  the  whole  of  that  July  Hobb  dwelt  in  the  Pilley- 
green Lodges  in  Open  Winkins  with  his  love  Margaret.  And 
by  the  month's  end  they  had  not  done  their  talking.  For 
did  not  a  young  lifetime  lie  behind  them,  and  did  they  not 
foresee  a  longer  life  ahead,  and  between  lovers  must  not  all 
be  told  and  dreamed  upon?  and  beyond  these  lives  in  time, 
which  were  theirs  in  any  case,  had  not  love  opened  to  them  a 
timeless  life  of  which  inexhaustible  dreams  were  to  be  ex- 
chanced,  not  always  by  words,  though  indeed  by  their  mouths, 
and  by  the  speech  of  their  hands  and  arms  and  eyes?  Hobb 
told  her  all  there  was  to  tell  of  the  Burgh  and  his  life  with 
his  brothers,  both  before  and  after  their  tragedies,  but  he  did 
not  often  speak  of  them  for  it  was  a  tale  she  hated  to  hear, 
and  sometimes  she  wept  so  bitterly  that  he  had  ado  to  com- 
fort her,  and  sometimes  was  so  angry  that  he  could  hardly 
conciliate  her.  But  such  was  his  own  gentleness  that  her 
caprices  could  withstand  it  no  more  than  the  shifting  clouds 
the  sun.  And  Margaret  told  him  of  herself,  but  her  tale  was 
short  and  simple — that  her  parents  had  died  in  the  forest 
when  she  was  young,  and  that  she  had  lived  there  all  her 
life  working  with  her  needle,  twice  yearly  taking  her  work  to 
the  Cathedral  Town  to  sell ;  and  with  the  proceeds  buying  what 
she  needed,  and  other  cloths  and  silk  and  gold  with  which  to 
work.  She  opened  the  coffer  in  Hobb's  lodge  and  showed  him 
what  she  did:  veils  that  she  had   embroidered  with  cobwebs 


i62     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

hung  with  dew,  so  that  you  feared  to  touch  them  lest  you 
should  destroy  the  cobweb  and  disperse  the  dew;  and  girdles 
thick-set  with  flowers,  so  that  you  thought  Spring's  self  on  a 
warm  day  had  loosed  the  girdle  from  her  middle,  and  lost 
it;  and  gowns  worked  like  the  feathers  of  a  bird,  some  like 
the  plumage  on  the  wood-dove's  breast,  and  others  like  a  jay's 
wing;  and  there  was  a  pair  of  blue  slippers  so  embroidered  that 
as  they  appeared  and  disappeared  beneath  a  flowing  skirt  with 
reeds  and  sallows  rising  from  a  hem  of  water,  you  thought  you 
had  seen  kingfishers;  and  there  were  tunics  overlaid  with  diiag- 
onflies'  wings  and  their  delicate  jointed  bodies  of  green  and 
black-and-yellow  and  Chalk-Hill  blue;  and  caps  all  gay  with 
autumn  berries,  scarlet  rose-hips  and  wine-red  haws,  and  the 
bright  briony,  and  spindle  with  its  twofold  gayety,  and  one 
cap  was  all  of  wild  clematis,  with  the  vine  of  the  Traveler's 
Joy  twined  round  the  brim  and  the  cloud  of  the  Old  Man's 
Beard  upon  the  crown.  And  Hobb  said,  "It  is  magic.  Who 
taught  you  to  do  this?"  And  Margaret  said,  "Open  Win- 
kins." 

Early  in  their  talks  he  told  her  of  his  garden,  and  of  the 
golden  rose  he  tried  to  grow  there,  and  of  his  failures;  and 
Margaret  knew  by  his  voice  and  his  eyes  more  than  by  his 
words  that  this  was  the  wish  of  his  heart.  And  she  smiled 
and  said,  "Now  I  know  with  what  I  must  redeem  my  prom- 
ise. Yet  I  think  I  shall  be  jealous  of  your  golden  rose."  And 
Hobb,  lifting  a  wave  of  her  glittering  hair  and  making  a  rose 
of  it  between  his  fingers,  asked,  "How  can  you  be  jealous  of 
yourself?"  "Yet  I  think  I  am,"  said  she  again,  "for  it  was 
something  of  myself  you  promised  to  give  me  presently,  and  I 
would  rather  have  something  of  you."  "They  are  the  same 
thing,"  said  Hobb,  and  he  twisted  up  the  great  rose  of  her 
hair  till  it  lay  beside  her  temple  under  the  ebony  fillet.  And 
as  his  hand  touched  the  fillet  he  looked  puzzled,  and  he  ran 
his  finger  round  its  shining  blackness  and  exclaimed,  "But  this 
too  IS  hair!"  Margaret  laughed  her  strange  laugh  and  said, 
"Yes,  my  own  hair,  you  discoverer  of  open  secrets!"  And 
putting  up  her  hands  she  unbound  the  fillet,  and  it  fell,  a 
slender  coil  of  black  amongst  the  golden  flood  of  her  head, 
like  a  serpent  gliding  down  the  sunglade  on  a  river. 

"Why  is  it  like  that?"  said  Hobb  simply. 

With  one  of  her  quick  changes  Margaret  frowned  and  an- 
swered, "Why  is  the  black  yew  set  with  little  lamps?     Why 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     163 

does  a  black  cloud  have  an  edge  of  light?  Why  does  a  black- 
bird have  white  feathers  in  his  body?  Must  things  be  all 
dark  or  all  light?"  And  she  stamped  her  foot  and  turned 
hastily  away,  and  began  to  do  up  her  hair  with  trembling 
hands.  And  Hobb  came  behind  her  and  kissed  the  top  of  her 
head.  She  turned  on  him  half  angrily,  half  smiling,  saying, 
"No!  for  you  do  not  like  my  black  lock."  And  Hobb  said 
very  gravely,  "I  will  find  all  things  beautiful  in  my  beloved, 
from  her  black  lock  to  her  blacker  temper."  Margaret  shot 
a  swift  look  at  him  and  saw  that  he  was  laughing  at  her  with 
an  echo  of  her  own  words;  and  she  flung  her  arms  about  him, 
laughing  too.  "Oh,  Hobb!"  said  she,  "you  pluck  out  my  black 
temper  by  the  roots!" 

So  with  teasing  and  talking  and  quarreling  and  kissing,  and 
ever-growing  love,  July  came  near  its  close;  and  as  love  dis- 
covers or  creates  all  miracles  in  what  it  loves,  Hobb  for  pure 
joy  grew  light  of  spirit,  and  laughed  and  played  with  his 
beloved  till  she  knew  not  whether  she  had  given  her  heart 
to  a  child  or  a  man ;  and  again  when  the  happiness  that  was 
in  his  soul  shone  through  his  eyes,  he  was  so  transfigured  that, 
gazing  on  his  beauty,  she  knew  not  whether  she  had  received 
the  heart  of  a  man  or  a  god.  And  the  truth  was  that  at  this 
time  Hobb  was  all  three,  since  love,  dear  maidens,  commands 
a  region  that  extends  beyond  both  birth  and  death,  and  includes 
all  that  is  mortal  in  all  that  is  eternal.  And  as  for  Mar- 
garet, she  was  all  things  by  turns,  sometimes  as  gay  as  sun- 
beams so  that  Hobb  could  scarcely  follow  her  dancing  spirit, 
but  could  only  sun  himself  in  the  delight  of  it;  and  sometimes 
she  was  full  of  folly  and  daring,  and  made  him  climb  with 
her  the  highest  trees,  and  drop  great  distances  from  bough 
to  bough,  mocking  at  all  his  fears  for  her  though  he  had  none 
for  himself ;  and  sometimes  when  he  was  downcast,  as  hap- 
pened now  and  then  for  thinking  on  his  brothers,  she  forgot 
her  jealousy  in  tenderness  of  his  sorrow,  and  made  him  lean 
his  head  upon  her  breast,  and  talked  to  him  low  as  a  mother 
to  her  baby,  words  that  perhaps  were  only  words  of  comfort, 
yet  seemed  to  him  infinite  wisdom,  as  the  child  believes  of  its 
mother's  tender  speech.  And  at  all  times  she  was  lovelier  than 
his  dreams  of  her.  Not  once  in  this  month  did  Hobb  go  out 
of  the  forest,  which  was  confined  on  the  north  and  north- 
west by  big  roads  running  to  the  world,  and  on  all  other 
sides  by  slopes  of   Downland.     But  whenever  in   their   wan- 


i64    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

derings  they  arrived  at  any  of  these  boundaries,  Margaret 
turned  him  back  and  said,  "I  do  not  love  the  open;  come 
away." 

But  on  the  last  day  of  the  month  they  came  upon  a  very 
narrow  neck  of  the  treeless  down,  a  green  ride  carved  be- 
tween their  wood  and  a  dark  plantation  that  lay  beyond,  so 
close  as  to  be  almost  a  part  of  Open  Winkins,  but  for  that 
one  little  channel  of  space;  and  Hobb  pointed  to  it  and  said, 
"That's  a  strange  place,  let  us  go  there." 

"No,"  said  Margaret. 

"But  is  it  not  our  own  wood?" 

"How  can  you  think  so?"  she  said  petulantly.  "Do  you  not 
see  how  black  it  is  in  there?  How  can  you  want  to  go  there? 
Come  away." 

"What  is  it  called?"  asked  Hobb. 

"The  Red  Copse,"  said  she. 

"Why?"  asked  Hobb. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she. 

"Have  you  never  been   there?"   asked   Hobb. 

"No,  never.  I  don't  like  it.  It  frightens  me."  And  she 
clung  to  him  like  a  child.     "Oh,  come  away!" 

She  was  trembling  so  that  he  turned  instantly,  and  they 
went  back  to  the  Pilleygreen  Lodges,  getting  wild  raspberries 
for  supper  on  the  way.  And  after  supper  they  sang  songs, 
one  against  the  other,  each  sweeter  than  the  last,  and  told 
stories  by  turns,  outdoing  each  other  in  fancy  and  invention; 
and  at  last  went  happily  to  bed. 

But  Hobb  could  not  sleep.  For  in  the  night  a  wind  came 
up  and  blew  four  times  round  his  lodge,  shaking  it  once  on 
every  wall.  And  it  stirred  in  him  the  memory  of  High  and 
Over,  and  with  the  memory  misgivings  that  he  could  not  name. 
And  he  rose  restlessly  from  his  couch  and  went  out  under  the 
troubled  moon,  for  a  windy  rack  of  clouds  was  blowing  over 
the  sky.  But  through  it  she  often  poured  her  amber  light, 
and  by  it  Hobb  saw  that  Margaret's  door  was  blowing  on  its 
hinges.  He  called  her  softly,  but  he  got  no  answer;  and  then 
he  called  more  loudly,  but  still  she  did  not  answer. 

"She  cannot  be  sleeping  through  this,"  said  Hobb  to  himself; 
and  with  an  uneasy  heart  he  stood  beside  the  door  and  looked 
into  the  lodge.  And  she  was  not  there,  and  the  couch  had  not 
been  slept  on.  But  on  it  lay  her  empty  dress,  its  gold  and  black 
all  tumbled  in  a  heap,  and  on  top  of  it  was  an  embroidered 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     165 

smock.  And  something  in  the  smock  attracted  him,  so  that 
he  went  quickly  forward  to  examine  it ;  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
Heriot's  shirt,  that  had  been  cut  and  changed  and  worked 
all  over  with  peacocks'  feathers.  And  he  stood  staring  at  it, 
astounded  and  aghast.  Recovering  himself,  he  turned  to  leave 
the  lodge,  but  stumbled  on  the  open  coffer,  hanging  out  of 
which  was  a  second  smock;  and  this  one  had  two  lions  worked 
on  the  back  and  front,  and  one  was  red  and  the  other  white, 
and  the  smock  had  been  Hugh's  shirt.  Then  Hobb  fell  on 
the  coffer  and  searched  its  contents  till  he  had  found  Lionel's 
little  shirt  fashioned  into  a  linen  vest,  with  a  tiny  border  of 
fantastic  animals  dancing  round  it,  pink  pigs,  and  black  cocks, 
and  white  donkeys,  and  chestnut  horses.  And  last  of  all  he 
found  the  shirt  of  Ambrose,  tattered  and  frayed,  and  every  tat- 
ter was  worked  at  the  edge  with  a  different  hue,  and  here  and 
there  small  mocking  patches  of  color  had  been  stitched  above 
the  holes. 

And  at  each  discovery  the  light  in  Hobb's  eyes  grew  calmer, 
and  the  beat  of  his  heart  more  steady.  And  he  walked  out  of 
the  Pilleygreen  Lodge  and  as  straight  as  his  feet  would  carry 
him  across  Open  Winkins  and  the  green  ride,  and  into  the 
Red  Copse.  As  he  went  he  shut  down  the  dread  in  his  heart 
of  what  he  should  find  there,  'Tor,"  said  Hobb  to  himself, 
"I  shall  need  more  courage  now  than  I  have  ever  had."  It 
was  black  in  the  Red  Copse,  with  a  blackness  blacker  than 
night,  and  the  wild  races  of  moonlight  that  splashed  the  floors 
of  Open  Winkins  were  here  unseen.  But  a  line  of  ruddy 
fireflies  rnade  a  track  on  the  blackness,  and  Hobb,  going  as 
softly  as  he  might,  followed  in  their  wake.  Just  before  the 
middle  of  the  Copse  they  stopped  and  flew  away,  and  one  by 
one,  as  each  reached  the  point  deserted  by  its  leader,  darted 
back  as  though  unable  to  penetrate  with  its  tiny  fire  the  fearful 
shadows  that  lay  just  ahead.  But  Hobb  went  where  the 
fireflies  could  not  go.  And  he  found  a  dark  silent  hollow  in 
the  wood,  where  neither  moon  nor  sun  could  ever  come;  and 
at  the  bottom  of  it  a  long  straggling  pool,  with  a  surface  as 
black  as  ebony,  and  mud  and  slime  below.  Here  toads  and 
bats  and  owls  and  nightjars  had  come  to  drink,  with  rats 
and  stoats  who  left  their  footprints  in  the  mud.  And  on  the 
ground  and  bushes  Hobb  saw  slugs  and  snails,  woodlice,  beetles 
and  spiders,  and  creeping  things  without  number.  The  gloom 
of  the  place  was  awful,  and  turned  the  rank  foliage  of  trees 


i66    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

and  shrubs  black  in  perpetual  twilight.  But  what  Hobb  saw 
he  saw  by  a  light  that  had  no  place  in  heaven.  For  kneeling 
beside  the  pool  was  his  love  Margaret,  her  naked  body  crouched 
and  bowed  among  the  creatures  of  the  mud ;  and  her  two  waves 
of  gold  were  flung  behind  her  like  a  smooth  mantle,  but  the 
one  black  lock  was  drawn  forward  over  her  head,  and  she 
was  dipping  and  dipping  it  into  the  dank  waters.  And  every 
time  she  drew  the  dripping  lock  from  its  stagnant  bath,  it 
glimmered  with  an  unearthly  phosphorescence,  that  shed  a 
ghostly  light  upon  the  hollow,  and  all  that  it  contained.  And 
at  each  dipping  the  lock  of  hair  came  out  blacker  than  be- 
fore. 

At  last  she  was  done,  and  she  slowly  squeezed  the  water 
from  her  unnatural  tress,  and  laid  it  back  in  its  place  among 
the  gold.  And  then  she  stretched  her  arms  and  sighed  so 
heavily  that  the  crawling  creatures  by  the  pool  were  startled. 
But  less  startled  than  she,  when  lifting  her  head  she  saw  the 
eyes  of  Hobb  looking  down  on  her.  And  such  terror  came 
into  her  own  eyes  that  the  look  rang  on  his  heart  as  though 
it  had  been  a  cry.  Yet  not  a  sound  issued  between  her  lips. 
And  he  said  to  himself,  "Now  I  need  more  wisdom  than  I 
have  ever  had."  And  he  continued  to  look  steadily  at  her  with 
eyes  that  she  could  not  read.     And  presently  he  spoke. 

"We  have  some  promises  to  redeem  to-night,"  he  said,  "and 
we  will  redeem  them  now.  You  promised  me  my  perfect 
golden  rose,  and  this  night  I  am  going  out  of  Open  Winkins 
and  back  to  my  own  Burgh.  And  to-morrow,  since  I  now 
know  something  of  your  power  of  gifts,  I  shall  find  the  rose 
upon  my  hill,  and  in  exchange  for  it  I  will  keep  my  word  and 
give  you  back  yourself.  But  there  is  something  more  than 
this."  And  he  went  a  little  apart,  and  soon  came  back  to  her 
with  his  jerkin  undone  and  his  shirt  in  his  hand.  "You  have 
my  brothers'  shirts  and  here  is  mine,"  he  said.  "To-night  when 
I  am  gone  you  shall  return  to  Open  Winkins,  and  spend  the 
hours  in  taking  out  the  work  you  have  put  into  their  shirts. 
And  in  the  morning  when  I  meet  them  at  the  Burgh  I  shall 
know  if  you  have  done  this.  But  in  exchange  for  theirs  I 
give  you  mine  to  do  with  as  you  will.  And  the  only  other 
thing  I  will  ask  of  you  is  this;  that  when  you  have  taken 
out  the  work  in  their  shirts,  you  will  spend  the  day  in  making 
a  white  garment  for  the  lady  who  will  one  day  be  my  wife. 
And  whatever  other  embroidery  you  put  upon  it,  let  it  bear  on 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     167 

the  left  breast  a  golden  rose.  And  to-morrow  night,  if  all  is 
well  at  the  Burgh,  I  will  come  here  for  the  last  time  and  fetch 
it  from  you." 

Then  Hobb  laid  his  shirt  beside  her  on  the  ground,  and 
turned  and  went  away.  And  she  had  not  even  tried  to  speak 
to  him. 

When  Hobb  got  out  of  the  Red  Copse  he  presently  found 
a  road  and  followed  it,  hoping  for  the  best.  After  awhile  he 
saw  a  tramp  asleep  in  a  ditch,  and  woke  him  and  asked  him  the 
way  to  the  Burgh  of  the  Five  Lords.  But  the  tramp  had  never 
heard  of  it.  So  then  Hobb  asked  the  way  to  Firle,  and  the 
tramp  said  "That's  another  matter,"  for  Sussex  tramps  know 
all  the  beacons  of  the  Downs,  and  he  told  him  to  go  east. 
Which  Hobb  did,  walking  without  rest  through  the  night  and 
dawn  and  day,  here  and  there  getting  a  lift  that  helped  him 
forward.  And  in  his  heart  he  carried  hope  like  a  lovely  flower, 
but  under  it  a  quick  pain  like  a  reptile's  sting  that  felt  to  him 
like  death.  And  he  would  not  give  way  to  the  pain,  but  went 
as  fast  and  as  steadily  as  he  could ;  and  at  last,  with  strained 
eyes  and  aching  feet,  and  limbs  he  could  scarcely  drag  for 
weariness,  and  the  dust  of  many  miles  upon  his  shoes  and 
clothes,  he  came  to  his  own  bare  country  and  the  Burgh.  He 
rested  heavily  on  the  gate,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  Lionel 
on  the  steps,  laughing  and  playing  with  a  litter  of  young  pup- 
pies. And  the  next  was  Hugh  climbing  the  castle  wall  to 
get  an  arrow  that  had  lodged  in  a  high  chink.  And  out  of 
a  window  leaned  Heriot  in  all  his  young  beauty,  picking  sweet 
clusters  of  the  seven-sisters  roses  that  climbed  to  his  room. 
And  in  the  doorway  sat  Ambrose,  with  a  book  on  his  knee, 
but  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  gate.  And  when  he  saw  Hobb  stand- 
ing there  he  came  quickly  down  the  steps,  calling  to  the  others, 
"Lionel!  Hugh!  Heriot!  our  brother  has  come  home."  And 
Lionel  rushed  through  the  puppies,  and  Hugh  dropped  bodily 
from  the  wall,  and  Heriot  leaped  through  the  window.  And 
the  four  boys  clung  to  Hobb  and  kissed  him  and  wrung  his 
hands,  and  seemed  as  they  would  fight  for  very  possession  of 
him.  And  Hobb,  with  his  arms  about  the  younger  boys,  and 
Heriot's  hand  in  his,  leaned  his  forehead  on  Ambrose's  cheek, 
and  Ambrose  felt  his  face  grow  wet  with  Hobb's  tears.  Then 
Ambrose  looked  at  him  with  apprehension,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "Hobb,  what  have  you  lost?"  And  Hobb  understood 
him.     And  he  answered  in  a  voice  as  low,  "My  heart.     But 


i68    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

I  have  found  my  four  brothers."  They  took  him  in  and  pre- 
pared a  bath  and  fresh  clothes  for  him,  and  a  meal  was  ready 
when  he  was  refreshed.  He  came  among  them  steady  and 
calm  again,  and  the  three  youngest  had  nothing  but  rejoicing 
for  him.  And  he  saw  that  all  memory  of  what  had  happened 
had  been  washed  from  them.  But  with  Ambrose  it  was  dif- 
ferent, for  he  who  had  had  his  very  mind  effaced,  in  recover- 
ing his  mind  remembered  all.  And  after  the  meal  he  took  Hobb 
aside  and  said,  "Tell  me  what  has  happened  to  you." 

Then  Hobb  said,  "Some  things  happen  which  are  between 
two  people  only,  and  they  can  never  be  told.  And  what  has 
passed  in  this  last  month,  dear  Ambrose,  is  only  for  her  knowl- 
edge and  mine.  But  as  to  what  is  going  to  happen,  I  do  not 
yet  know." 

After  a  moment's  silence  Ambrose  said,  "Tell  me  this  at 
least.     Has  she  given  you  a  gift?" 

"She  has  given  me  you  again,"  said  Hobb. 

"That  is  different,"  said  Ambrose.  "She  has  given  us  our- 
selves again,  and  our  power  to  pursue  the  destiny  of  our  na- 
tures. But  no  man  is  another  man's  destiny.  And  it  was  our 
erroi;  to  barter  our  own  powers  to  another  in  exchange  for  the 
small  goals  our  natures  desired.  And  so  we  lost  a  treasure 
for  a  trifle.  For  every  man's  power  is  greater  than  the  thing 
he  achieves  by  it.  But  what  has  she  given  you  in  exchange  for 
what  she  has  taken  from  you?"  And  as  he  spoke  he  looked 
into  Hobb's  gentle  eyes,  and  thought  that  if  he  had  lost  his 
heart  it  was  a  loss  that  had  somehow  multiplied  his  possession 
of  it.     "What  has  she  given  you  ?"  he  said  again. 

"I  shall  not  know,"  said  Hobb,  "until  I  have  been  to  my 
garden.  And  I  must  go  alone.  And  afterwards,  Ambrose,  I 
must  ride  away  for  another  night  and  day,  but  then  I  will 
return  to  the  Burgh  for  ever." 

So  he  got  his  horse,  and  went  to  the  Gardener's  Hill,  and 
his  garden  was  blazing  with  flowers  like  a  joyous  welcome. 
But  when  he  approached  the  bush  on  which  his  heart  was  set, 
he  saw  a  great  gold  bloom  upon  it  that  startled  him  with  its 
beauty;  until  coming  closer  he  perceived  that  all  the  petals 
were  rotten  at  the  heart,  and  coiled  in  the  center  was  a  small 
black  snake. 

He  plucked  the  rose  from  its  stem,  and  as  he  looked  at  it  his 
face  grew  bright,  and  he  suddenly  laughed  aloud  for  joy ;  and 
he  ran  out  of  the  garden  and  got  on  his  horse,  and  rode  with 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     169 

all  his  speed  to  Open  Winkins.  When  he  got  there  the  moon 
had  risen  over  the  Pilleygreen  Lodges. 

And  Margaret  sat  at  the  door  of  her  lodge  in  the  moonlight, 
putting  the  last  stitches  into  her  work. 

But  when  she  saw  him  coming  she  broke  her  thread,  and 
rose  and  averted  her  head.  Then  Hobb  dismounted  and  came 
and  stood  beside  her,  and  saw  that  in  some  way  she  was  changed 
from  the  woman  he  knew.  Margaret,  still  not  turning  to  him, 
muttered,  "Do  not  look  at  me,  please.  For  I  am  ugly  and 
unhappy  and  afraid  and  nearly  mad.  And  here  are  your 
brothers'  shirts."  She  gave  him  the  four  shirts,  restored  to 
themselves.  He  took  them  silently.  "And  here,"  continued 
Margaret,  "is  her  wedding-smock." 

And  Hobb  took  it  from  her,  and  saw  that  out  of  his  own 
shirt,  washed  and  bleached,  she  had  made  a  lovely  garment. 
And  round  it,  from  the  hem  upward,  ran  a  climbing  briar  of 
exquisite  delicacy,  and  with  a  beautiful  design  of  spines  and 
leaves ;  but  the  only  flower  upon  it  was  a  golden  rose,  worked 
on  the  heart  of  the  smock  in  her  own  gold  hair.  And  Hobb 
took  it  from  her  and  again  said  nothing. 

Then  Margaret  with  a  great  cry,  as  though  her  heart  were 
breaking,  gasped,  "Go!  go  quickly!  I  have  done  what  you 
wanted.     Go!" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Hobb,  "but  you  must  come  with  me." 

She  turned  then,  whispering,  "How  can  I  go  with  you? 
What  do  you  mean?"  And  she  looked  in  his  eyes  and  saw  in 
them  such  infinite  compassion  and  tenderness  that  she  was 
overwhelmed,  and  swayed  where  she  stood.  And  then  his  arms, 
which  she  had  never  expected  to  feel  again,  closed  round  her 
body,  and  she  lay  helplessly  against  him,  and  heard  him  say, 
"Love  Margaret,  you  are  my  only  love,  and  you  worked  the 
wedding-smock  only  for  yourself.  Oh,  Margaret,  did  you  think 
I  had  another  love?" 

She  looked  at  him  blankly  as  though  she  could  not  under- 
stand, and  her  face  was  full  of  wonder  and  joy  and  fright.  And 
she  hung  away  from  him  sobbing,  "No,  no,  no!  I  cannot.  I 
must  not.     I  am  not  good  enough." 

"Which  of  us  is  good  enough?"  said  Hobb.  "So  then  we 
must  all  come  to  love  for  help." 

And  she  cried  again  in  an  agony,  "No,  no,  no!  There  is 
evil  in  me.  And  I  lived  alone  and  had  nothing,  nothing  that 
ever  lasted,  for  I  was  born  on  High  and  Over  in  the  crossways 


I70    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

of  the  winds,  and  they  were  the  godfathers  of  my  birth.  And 
all  my  life  they  have  blown  things  to  and  from  me.  And  I 
tried  to  keep  what  they  blew  me;  and  I  gave  their  hearts'  de- 
sire to  all  comers,  and  took  in  exchange  the  best  they  could 
give  me;  for  I  thought  that  if  it  was  fair  for  them  to  take,  it 
was  fair  for  me  to  take  too.  But  nothing  that  I  took  mattered 
longer  than  a  week  or  a  day  or  an  hour,  neither  laughter  nor 
courage  nor  beauty  nor  wisdom — all,  all  were  unstable  till  the 
winds  blew  me  you.  And  as  I  looked  at  you  lying  there  un- 
conscious, something,  I  knew  not  what,  seemed  different  from 
anything  I  had  ever  known,  but  when  you  opened  your  eyes 
I  knew  what  it  was,  and  my  heart  seemed  to  fly  from  my 
body.  And  I  longed,  as  I  had  never  longed  with  the  others,  to 
give  you  your  soul's  desire,  and  I  have  tried  and  tried,  and  I 
could  not.  I  could  not  give  you  anything  at  all,  but  every  hour 
of  the  day  and  night  I  seemed  to  be  taking  from  you.  And  yet 
what  you  had  to  give  me  was  never  exhausted.  And  the  evil 
in  me  often  fought  against  you,  when  I  dreaded  your  knowing 
the  truth  about  me,  and  would  have  lied  my  soul  away  to  keep 
you  from  knowing  it ;  and  when  I  was  jealous  of  your  love 
for  your  brothers.  So  again  and  again  I  failed,  when  I  should 
have  thought  of  nothing  but  that  you  loved  me  as  I  loved  you. 
For  did  I  not  know  of  my  own  love  that  it  could  never  give 
you  cause  to  be  jealous,  nor  would  ever  shrink  from  any  truth 
it  might  know  of  you? — but  now — but  now! — oh,  my  heart, 
had  I  known,  v/hen  you  spoke  last  night  of  your  bride,  that 
I  was  she!  I  will  never  be  she!  I  was  not  good  enough.  I 
fought  myself  in  vain."  And  she  drooped  in  his  arms,  nearly 
fainting. 

"Love  Margaret!"  said  Hobb,  and  the  tears  ran  down  his 
face,  "I  will  fight  for  you,  yes,  and  you  will  fight  for  me. 
And  if  you  have  sacrificed  joy  and  courage  and  beauty  and 
wisdom  for  my  sake,  I  will  give  them  all  to  you  again ;  and 
yet  you  must  also  give  them  to  me,  for  they  are  things  in  which 
without  you  I  am  wanting.  But  together  we  can  make  them. 
And  when  I  went  to  my  garden  this  morning,  I  thanked  God 
that  my  rose  was  not  perfect,  and  that  you  had  not  taken  my 
heart,  as  you  had  taken  joy  and  courage  and  beauty  and  wis- 
dom, as  a  penalty  for  a  gift.  Their  desires  you  could  give 
them,  and  take  their  best  in  payment,  but  mine  you  could  not 
give  me  in  the  same  way.  For  in  love  there  are  no  penalties 
and  no  payments,  and  what  is  given  is  indistinguishable  from 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     171 

what  is  received."  And  he  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  long 
and  deeply,  and  in  that  kiss  neither  knew  themselves,  or  even 
each  other,  but  something  beyond  all  consciousness  that  was 
both  of  them. 

Presently  Hobb  said,  "Now  let  us  go  away  from  Open  Win- 
kins  together,  and  I  will  take  you  to  the  Burgh.  But  you 
must  go  as  my  bride." 

And  Margaret,  pale  as  death  from  that  long  kiss,  withdrew 
herself  very  slowly  from  his  arms.  And  her  dark  eyes  looked 
strange  in  the  moonlight  as  he  had  never  seen  them,  and  more 
beautiful,  with  a  beauty  beyond  beauty;  and  deep  joy  too  was 
in  them,  and  an  infinite  wisdom,  and  a  strength  of  courage,  that 
seemed  more  than  courage,  wisdom  and  joy,  for  they  had  come 
from  the  very  fountain  of  all  these  things.  And  very  slowly, 
with  that  unfading  look,  she  took  oft  her  black  gown  and  put 
on  the  white  bridal-smock  she  had  made;  and  as  soon  as  she 
had  put  it  on  she  fell  dead  at  his  feet. 

("I  think,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "that  you  have  now  had 
plenty  of  time,  Mistress  Jessica,  to  ponder  my  riddle." 

"Your  riddle?"  exclaimed  Jessica.  "But — good  heavens! 
bother  your  riddle!  get  on  with  the  story." 

"How  can  I  get  on  with  it?"  said  Martin.    "It's  got  there." 

Joscelyn:  No,  no,  no!  oh,  it's  impossible!  oh,  I  can't  bear 
it!  oh,  how  angry  I  am  with  you! 

Martin:    Dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  why  are  you  so  agitated? 

Joscelyn  :  I  ?  I  am  not  at  all  agitated.  I  am  quite  col- 
lected. I  only  wish  you  were  as  collected,  for  I  think  you  must 
be  out  of  your  wits.  How  dare  you  leave  this  story  where  it 
is?     How  dare  you! 

Martin  :  Dear,  dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  what  more  is  there 
to  be  told? 

Joscelyn  :  I  do  not  care  what  more  is  to  be  told.  Only 
some  of  it  must  be  re-told.  You  must  bring  that  girl  instantly 
to  life! 

Joyce:  Of  course  you  must!  And  explain  why  she  died, 
tl.ough  she  mustn't  die. 

Jennifer  :  No,  indeed !  and  if  it  had  to  do  with  her  black 
hair,  you  must  pluck  it  out  by  the  roots. 

Jessica:  Yes,  indeed!  and  you  must  do  something  about  the 
horrible  pool  in  the  Red  Copse,  for  perhaps  that  is  what  killed 
her. 


172    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Jane:  Oh,  it  is  too  dreadful  not  to  have  a  story  with  a 
wedding  in  it! 

And  little  Joan  leaned  out  of  her  branch  and  took  Martin's 
hand  in  hers,  and  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  and  said  nothing. 

"Will  women  never  let  a  man  make  a  thing  in  his  own  way?" 
said  Martin.  "Will  they  always  be  adding  and  changing  this 
detail  and  that?  For  what  a  detail  is  death  once  lovers  have 
kissed.    However — !") 

Not  less  than  yourselves,  my  silly  dears,  was  Hobb  over- 
whelmed by  that  down-sinking  of  his  love  Margaret.  And  he 
fell  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  put 
his  hand  over  the  rose  on  her  heart,  that  had  ceased  to  beat. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  hand  had  been  stung,  and 
he  drew  it  away  quickly,  his  eyes  on  the  golden  rose.  And 
where  she  had  left  it  just  incomplete  at  his  coming,  he  saw  a 
jet-black  speck.  A  light  broke  over  him  swiftly,  and  one  by 
one  he  broke  the  strands  at  the  rose's  heart,  and  under  it  re- 
vealed a  small  black  snake ;  and  as  the  rose  had  been  done  from 
her  own  gold  locks,  so  the  snake  had  been  done  from  the  one 
black  lock  in  the  gold.  Then  at  last  Hobb  understood  why  she 
had  cried  she  was  not  good  enough  to  be  his  bride,  for  she  had 
fought  in  vain  her  last  dark  impulse  to  prepare  death  for  the 
woman  who  should  wear  the  bridal-smock.  And  he  understood 
too  the  meaning  of  her  last  wonderful  look,  as  she  took  the 
death  upon  herself.  And  he  loved  her,  both  for  her  fault  and 
her  redemption  of  it,  more  than  he  had  ever  thought  that  he 
could  love  her;  for  he  had  believed  that  in  their  kiss  love  had 
reached  its  uttermost.  But  love  has  no  uttermost,  as  the  stars 
have  no  number  and  the  sea  no  rest. 

Now  at  first  Hobb  thought  to  pluck  the  serpent  from  her 
breast,  but  then  he  said,  "Of  what  use  to  destroy  the  children 
of  evil?  It  is  evil  itself  vve  must  destroy  at  the  roots."  And 
very  carefully  he  undid  her  beautiful  hair,  and  laid  its  two 
gold  waves  on  either  side ;  but  the  slim  black  tress  he  gathered 
up  in  his  hand  until  he  held  every  hair  of  it,  and  one  by  one 
he  plucked  them  from  her  head.  And  every  time  he  plucked  a 
hair  the  pain  that  had  been  under  his  heart  stabbed  him  with 
a  sting  that  seemed  like  death,  and  with  each  sting  the  mortal 
agony  grew  more  acute,  till  it  was  as  though  the  powers  of  evil 
were  spitting  burning  venom  on  that  steadfast  heart,  to  wither 
it  before  it  could  frustrate  them.     But  he  did  not  falter  oncej 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     173 

and  as  he  plucked  the  last  hair  out,  Margaret  opened  her  eyes. 
Then  all  pain  leapt  like  a  winged  snake  from  his  heart,  and  he 
forgot  everything  but  the  joy  and  wonder  in  her  eyes  as  she 
lay  looking  up  at  him,  and  said,  "What  has  happened  to  me? 
and  what  have  you  done?"  And  she  saw  the  tress  in  his  hand 
and  understood,  and  she  kissed  the  hand  that  had  plucked  the 
evil  from  her.  Then,  her  smoky  eyes  shining  with  tears,  but  a 
smile  on  her  pale  lips,  she  said,  "Come,  and  we  will  drown 
that  hair  for  ever."  So  hand-in-hand  they  went  across  Open 
Winkins  and  over  the  way  that  led  to  the  Red  Copse.  And 
as  they  pushed  and  scrambled  through  the  bushes,  what  do  you 
think  they  saw?  First  a  shimmering  light  round  the  edge  of 
the  pool,  and  then  a  sheet  of  moon-daisies,  the  largest,  whitest, 
purest  blooms  that  ever  were.  And  they  stood  there  on  their 
tall  straight  stems  of  tender  green  in  hundreds  and  hundreds, 
guarding  and  sanctifying  the  place.  It  was  like  a  dark  cathe- 
dral with  white  lilies  on  the  high  altar.  And  they  saw  a  cock 
blackbird  wetting  his  whistle  at  the  pool,  and  heard  two  others 
and  a  green  woodpecker  chuckling  in  the  trees  close  by.  And 
they  had  no  eyes  for  slimy  goblin  things,  even  if  there  were 
any.     And  I  don't  believe  there  were. 

They  bound  the  black  tress  about  a  stone,  and  it  sank 
among  the  reflections  of  the  daisies  in  the  water,  there  to  be 
purified  for  ever.  And  the  next  day  he  put  her  behind  him  on 
his  horse,  and  they  rode  to  the  garden  on  the  eastern  hills,  and 
found  upon  his  bush  a  single  perfect  rose.  And  as  she  had 
given  it  to  him,  Hobb  straightway  plucked  and  gave  it  to  her. 
For  that  is  the  only  way  to  possess  a  gift. 

And  then  they  went  together  to  the  Burgh,  and  very  soon 
after  there  was  a  wedding. 

I  am  now  all  impatience,  Mistress  Jessica,  to  hear  you  solve 
my  riddle. 


FOURTH  INTERLUDE 

LIKE  contented  mice,  the  milkmaids  began  once  more  to 
.nibble  at  their  half-finished  apples,  and  simultaneously 
nibbled  at  the  just-finished  story. 

Jessica:  Do,  pray,  Jane,  let  us  hear  what  conclusions  you 
draw  from  all  this. 

Jane:  I  confess,  Jessica,  I  am  all  at  sea.  The  good  and 
the  evil  were  so  confused  in  this  tale  that  even  now  I  can 
scarcely  distinguish  between  black  and  gold.  For  had  Mar- 
garet not  done  ill,  who  would  have  discovered  how  well  Hobb 
could  do?  Yet  who  would  wish  her,  or  any  woman,  to  do  ill? 
even  for  the  proof  of  his,  or  any  man's,  good? 

Martin  :  True,  Mistress  Jane.  Yet  women  are  so  strangely 
constructed  that  they  have  in  them  darkness  as  well  as  light, 
though  it  be  but  a  little  curtain  hung  across  the  sun.  And 
love  is  the  hand  that  takes  the  curtain  down,  a  stronger  hand 
than  fear,  which  hung  it  up.  For  all  the  ill  that  is  in  us  comes 
from  fear,  and  all  the  good  from  love.  And  where  there  is 
fear  to  combat,  love  is  life's  warrior ;  but  where  there  is  no  fear 
he  is  life's  priest.  And  his  prayer  is  even  stronger  than  his 
sword.  But  men,  always  less  aware  of  prayers  than  of  blows, 
recognize  him  chiefly  when  he  is  in  arms,  and  so  are  deluded 
into  thinking  that  love  depends  on  fear  to  prove  his  force.  But 
this  is  a  fallacy ;  love's  force  is  independent.  For  how  can  what 
is  immortal  depend  on  what  is  mortal?  Yet  human  beings 
must,  by  the  very  fact  of  being  alive  at  all,  partake  of  both 
qualities.  And  strongly  opposed  as  we  shall  find  the  complex- 
ing  elements  of  light  and  darkness  in  a  woman,  still  more 
strongly  opposed  shall  we  discover  them  in  a  man.  As  I  pre- 
sume I  have  no  need  to  tell  you. 

Joscelyn:  You  presume  too  much.  The  elements  that  go 
to  make  a  man  are  not  to  our  taste. 

Martin  :    My  story  I  hope  was  so. 

Joscelyn:  To  some  extent.  And  this  pool  in  the  Red 
Copse,  is  it  hard  to  find  ? 

Martin  :    Neither  harder  nor  easier  than  all  fairies'  secrets. 

174 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     175 

And  at  certain  times  in  summer,  when  the  wood  is  altogether 
lovely  with  centaury  and  purple  loosestrife,  you  can  hardly  miss 
the  pool  for  the  fairies  that  fiock  there. 

Joyce:    What  dresses  do  they  wear? 

Martin;  The  most  beautiful  in  the  world.  The  dresses 
of  White  Admirals  and  Red,  and  Silver-Washed  Fritillaries 
and  Pearl-Bordered  Fritillaries,  and  Large  Whites  and  Small 
Whites  and  Marbled  Whites  and  Green-Veined  Whites,  and 
Ringlets,  and  Azure  Blues,  and  Painted  Ladies,  and  Meadow 
Browns.  And  they  go  there  for  a  Feast  Day  in  honor  of  some 
Saint  of  the  Fairies'  Church.  Which  Hobb  and  Margaret 
also  attended  once  yearly  on  each  first  of  August,  bringing  a 
golden  rose  to  lay  upon  the  altars  of  the  pool.  And  the  year 
in  which  they  brought  it  no  more,  two  Sulphurs,  with  dresses 
like  sunlight  on  a  charlock-field,  came  with  the  rest  to  the  moon- 
daisies'  Feast;  because  not  once  in  all  their  years  of  marriage 
had  the  perfect  rose  been  lacking. 

Jessica:  It  relieves  me  to  hear  that.  For  I  had  dreaded 
lest  their  rose  was  blighted  for  ever. 

Jane:  And  I  too,  Jessica.  Especially  when  she  died  at  his 
feet. 

Joan:  And  yet,  Jane,  she  did  not  really  die,  and  somehow 
I  was  sure  she  would  live. 

Joyce:  Yes,  I  was  confident  that  Hobb  would  be  as  happy 
as  he  deserved  to  be. 

Jennifer:  I  do  not  know  why,  but  even  at  the  worst  I 
could  not  imagine  a  love-story  ending  in  tears. 

Martin  :  Neither  could  I.  Since  love's  spear  is  for  woe 
and  his  shield  for  joy.  Why,  I  know  of  but  one  thing  that 
could  have  lost  him  that  battle. 

Three  of  the  Milkmaids:    What  thing? 

Martin  :  Had  the  elements  that  go  to  make  a  man  not  been 
to  Margaret's  taste. 

Conversation  ceased  in  the  Apple-Orchard. 

Joscelyn:  Her  taste  would  have  been  the  more  commend- 
able, singer.  And  your  tale  might  have  been  the  better  worth 
listening  to.  But  since  tales  have  nothing  in  common  with 
truth,  it's  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  whether  Hobb's  rose 
suffered  perpetual  blight  or  not. 

Jane:    And  to  me. 


176    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Martin  :  Then  let  the  tale  wilt,  since  indifference  is  a 
blight  no  story  can  suffer  and  live.  And  see!  overhead  the 
moon  hangs  undecided  under  a  cloud,  one  half  of  her  lovely- 
body  unveiled,  the  other  half  draped  in  a  ghostly  garment  lit 
from  within  by  the  beauties  she  still  keeps  concealed ;  like  a 
maid  half-ready  for  her  pillow,  turned  motionless  on  the  brink 
of  her  couch  by  the  oncoming  dreams  to  which  she  so  soon  v/ill 
wholly  yield  herself.  Let  us  not  linger,  for  her  chamber  is 
sacred,  and  we  too  have  dreams  that  await  our  up-yielding. 

Like  a  flock  of  clouds  at  sundown,  the  milkmaids  made  a 
golden  group  upon  the  grass,  and  soon,  by  their  breathing,  had 
sunk  into  their  slumbers.  All  but  Jessica,  who  instead  of  fol- 
lowing their  example,  pushed  the  ground  with  her  foot  to  keep 
herself  in  motion ;  and  as  she  swung  she  bit  a  strand  of  her  hair 
and  knitted  her  brows.  And  Martin  amused  himself  watching 
her.  And  presently  as  she  swung  she  plucked  a  leaf  from  the 
apple-tree  and  looked  at  it,  and  let  it  go.  And  then  she  snapped 
off  a  twig,  and  flung  it  after  the  leaf.  And  next  she  caught 
at  an  apple,  and  tossed  it  after  the  twig. 

"Well?"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

"Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  Jessica.  She  got  off  the 
swing  and  walked  round  the  tree,  touching  it  here  and  there. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  she  threw  an  arm  up  into  the  branches 
and  leaned  the  whole  weight  of  her  body  against  the  trunk,  and 
began  to  whistle. 

"Give  it  up?"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

"Stupid!"  said  Jessica.     "I've  guessed  it." 

"Impossible!"  said  Martin.  "Nobody  ever  guesses  riddles. 
Riddles  were  only  invented  to  be  given  up.  Because  the  pleas- 
ure of  not  being  guessed  is  so  much  greater  than  the  pleasure 
of  having  guessed.  Do  give  it  up  and  let  me  tell  you  the 
answer.  Even  if  you  know  the  answer,  please,  please  give  it 
up,  for  I  am  dying  to  tell  it  you." 

"I  shall  never  have  saved  a  young  man's  life  easier,"  said 
Jessica,  "and  as  you  saved  mine  before  the  story,  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  save  yours  after  it.  How  often,  by  the  way,  have 
you  saved  a  lady's  life?" 

"As  often  as  she  thought  herself  in  danger  of  losing  it,"  said 
Martin.  "It  happens  every  other  minute  with  ladies,  who 
are  always  dying  to  have,  or  to  do,  or  to  know — this  thing  or 
that." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     177 

"I  hope,"  said  Jessica,  "I  shall  not  die  before  I  know  every- 
thing there  is  to  know." 

"What  a  small  wish,"  said  Martin. 

"Have  you  a  bigger  one?" 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "to  know  everything,  there  is  not  to  know." 

Jessica:    Oh,  but  those  are  the  only  things  I  do  know. 

Martin  :    It  is  a  knowledge  common  to  women. 

Jessica:     How  do  you  know? 

Martin:    I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 

Jessica:  I  don't  think,  Master  Pippin,  that  you  know  a 
great  deal  about  women. 

And  she  put  out  her  tongue  at  him. 

Martin:  (Take  care!)  I  know  nothing  at  all  about 
women. 

Jessica:     (Why?)     Yet  you  pretend  to  tell  love-stories. 

Martin:  (Because  if  you  do  that  I  can't  answer  for  the 
consequences.)  It  is  only  by  women's  help  that  I  tell  them 
at  all. 

Jessica:  (I'm  not  afraid  of  consequences.  I'm  not  afraid 
of  anything.)     Who  helped  you  tell  this  one? 

Martin:  (Your  courage  will  have  to  be  tested.)  You 
did. 

Jessica:    Did  I?    How? 

Martin  :  Because  what  you  love  in  an  apple-tree  is  not  the 
leaf  or  the  flower  or  the  bough  or  the  fruit — it  is  the  apple- 
tree.  Which  is  all  of  these  things  and  everything  besides;  for 
it  is  the  roots  and  the  rind  and  the  sap,  it  is  motion  and  rest 
and  color  and  shape  and  scent,  and  the  shadows  on  the  earth 
and  the  lights  in  the  air — and  still  I  have  not  said  what  the 
tree  is  that  you  love,  for  though  I  should  recapitulate  it  through 
the  four  seasons  I  should  only  be  telling  you  those  parts,  none 
of  which  is  what  you  love  in  an  apple-tree.  For  no  one  can 
love  the  part  more  than  the  whole  till  love  can  be  measured  in 
pint-pots.  And  who  can  measure  fountains?  That's  the  an- 
swer, Mistress  Jessica.  I  knew  you'd  have  to  give  it  up.  (Take 
care,  child,  take  care!) 

Jessica:  (I  won't  take  care!).  I  knew  the  answer  all  the 
time. 

Martin:  Then  you  know  what  your  apple-tree  has  to  do 
with  my  story. 

Jessica:  Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Martin:     Please  tell  me. 


178    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Jessica:    No. 

Martin:    But  I  give  it  up. 

Jessica  :    No. 

Martin  :  That's  not  fair.  People  who  give  it  up  must  al- 
ways be  told,  in  triumph  if  not  in  pity. 

Jessica:    I  sha'n't  tell. 

Martin:     You  don't  know, 

Jessica:     I'll  box  your  ears. 

Martin:     If  you  do — ! 

Jessica  :    Quarreling's  silly. 

Martin  :    Who  began  it  ? 

Jessica:    You  did.    Men  always  do. 

Martin:  Always.  What  was  the  beginning  of  your  quar- 
rel with  men? 

Jessica:    They  said  girls  can't  throw  straight. 

Martin:  Silly  asses!  I'd  like  to  see  them  throw  as  straight 
as  girls.  Did  you  ever  watch  them  at  it?  Men  can  throw 
straight  in  one  direction  only — but  watch  a  girl!  she'll  throw 
straight  all  round  the  compass.  Why,  a  man  will  throw 
straight  at  the  moon  and  miss  it  by  the  eighth  of  an  inch ;  but  a 
girl  will  throw  at  the  sun  and  hit  the  moon  as  straight  as  a 
die.  I  never  saw  a  girl  throw  yet  without  straightway  finding 
some  mark  or  other. 

Jessica:    Yes,  but  you  can't  convince  a  man  till  he's  hit. 

Martin:    Hit  him  then. 

Jessica:  It  didn't  convince  him.  He  said  I'd  missed.  And 
he  said  he  had  hi —  he  wasn't  convinced. 

Martin  :  Did  he  really  say  that  ?  These  men  can  no  more 
talk  straight  than  throw  straight.  Can  you  talk  straight,  Jes- 
sica? 

Jessica:    Yes,  Martin. 

Martin  :  Then  tell  me  what  your  apple-tree  has  to  do  with 
my  story. 

Jessica:  Bother.  All  right.  Because  wisdom  and  beauty 
and  courage  and  laughter  can  all  be  measured  in  pint-pots. 
And  any  or  all  of  these  things  can  be  dipped  out  of  a  fountain. 
You  thought  I  didn't  know,  but  I  do  know. 

Martin:  (Take  care!)  Where  did  you  get  all  this 
knowledge  ? 

Jessica  :  And  that  was  why  Margaret  could  take  what  she 
took  from  Lionel  and  Hugh  and  Heriot  and  Ambrose,  because 
it  was  something  measurable.     Yes,  because  even  a  gay  spirit 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     179 

can  be  sad  at  times,  and  a  strong  nerve  weak,  and  a  beautiful 
face  ugly,  and  a  clever  brain  dull.  But  when  it  came  to  taking 
what  Hobb  had,  she  could  take  and  take  without  exhausting 
it,  and  give  and  give  and  always  have  something  left  to  give, 
because  that  wasn't  measurable.  And  the  tree  is  the  tree,  and 
love  is  never  anything  else  but  love. 

Martin:    Oh,  Jessica!  who  has  been  your  schoolmaster? 

Jessica:  And  so  when  she  threw  away  her  four  pints  what 
did  it  matter,  any  more  than  when  the  tree  loses  its  leaves, 
or  its  flowers,  or  snaps  a  twig,  or  drops  its  apples?  For 
chough  nobody  else  thought  them  lovely  or  clever  or  witty  or 
splendid,  she  and  Hobb  were  so  to  each  other  for  ever  and  ever; 
because — 

Martin  :     Because  ? 

Jessica:  It  doesn't  matter.  I've  told  you  enough,  and  you 
thought  I  couldn't  tell  you  anything,  and  I  simply  hated  saying 
it,  but  you  thought  I  couldn't  throw  straight  and  I  can,  and 
your  riddle  was  as  simple  as  pie. 

Martin:  (Look  out,  I  tell  you!)  You  have  thrown  as 
straight  as  a  die.  And  now  I  will  ask  you  a  straight  question. 
Will  you  give  me  your  key  to  Gillian's  prison  ? 

Jessica  :    Yes. 

Martin:  Because  you  dreaded  lest  Hobb's  rose  was 
blighted  for  ever? 

Jessica:  No.  Because  it's  a  shame  she  should  be  there  at 
all. 

And  she  gave  him  the  key. 

Martin:  You  honest  dear. 

Jessica:  You  thought  I  was  going  to  beg  the  question — 
didn't  you,  Martin? 

Martin:     Put  in  your  tongue,  or — 

Jessica:  Or  what? 

Martin  :  You  know  what. 

Jessica:  I  don't  know  what. 

Martin:  Then  you  must  take  the  consequences. 

And  she  took  the  consequences  on  both  cheeks. 

Jessica:  Oh!  Oh,  if  I  had  guessed  you  meant  that,  do  you 
suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  would  have — ? 


i8o    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Martin  :    You  dishonest  dear. 

Jessica:    I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

Martin:     How  crooked  girls  throw! 

She  boxed  his  ears  heartily  and  ran  to  her  comrades.  When 
she  was  perfectly  safe  she  turned  round  and  put  out  her  tongue 
at  him. 

Then  they  both  lay  down  and  went  to  sleep. 

Martin  was  wakened  by  water  squeezed  on  his  eyelids.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  Joscelyn  wringing  out  her  little  handkerchief 
in  the  j)annikin. 

"Let  us  have  no  nonsense  this  morning,"  said  she. 

"I  like  that!"  mumbled  Martin.  "What's  this  but  non- 
sense?" He  sat  up,  drying  his  face  on  his  sleeve.  "What  a 
silly  trick,"  he  said. 

"Rubbish,"  said  Joscelyn.  "Our  master  Is  due,  and  yesterday 
you  overslept  yourself  and  were  troublesome.  Go  to  your  tree 
this  instant." 

"I  shall  go  when  I  choose,"  said  Martin. 

"Maids!  maids!  maids!" 

"This  instant!"  said  Joscelyn,  and  dipped  her  handkerchief 
into  the  pannikin. 

Martin  crawled  into  the  tree. 

"Is  a  dog  got  into  the  orchard,  maids?"  said  Old  Gillman, 
looking   through   the  hedge. 

"What  an  idea,  master,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"I  thought  I  seed  one  wagging  his  tail  in  the  grass." 

The  girls  burst  out  laughing;  they  laughed  till  the  apples 
shook,  and  Old  Gillman  laughed  too,  because  laughter  is 
catching.  And  then  he  stopped  laughing  and  said,  "Is  an 
echo  got  into  the  orchard?" 

And  the  startled  girls  laughed  louder  than  ever,  and  they 
grew  red  in  the  face,  and  tears  stood  in  their  eyes,  and  Joscelyn 
had  to  go  and  lean  against  the  russet  tree,  where  she  stood 
frowning  like  a  stepmother. 

"  'Tis  well  to  be  laughing,"  said  Old  Gillman,  "but  have 
ye  heard  my  daughter  laughing  yet?" 

"No,  master,"  said  Jessica,  "but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it 
happened  any  day." 

"Any  day  may  be  no  day,"  groaned  Gillman,  "and  though 
It  were  some  day,  as  like  as  not  I'd  not  be  here  to  see  the  day. 
,For  I'm  drinking  myself  into  my  grave,  as  Parson  warned  me 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     i8i 

yesternight,  coming  for  my  receipt  for  mulled  beer.  Gillian!" 
he  implored,  "when  will  ye  think  better  of  it,  and  save  an  old 
man's  life?" 

But  for  all  the  notice  she  took  of  him,  he  might  have  been 
the  dog  barking  in  his  kennel. 

"Bitter  bread  for  me,  maids,  and  sweet  bread  for  you,"  said 
the  farmer,  passing  the  loaves  through  the  gap.  "  'Tis  plain 
fare  for  all  these  days.     May  the  morrow  bring  cake." 

"Oh,  master,  please!"  called  Jessica.  "I  would  like  to  know 
how  Clover,  the  Aberdeen,  gets  on  without  me." 

"Gets  on  as  best  she  can  with  Oliver,"  said  Gillman, 
"though  that  fretty  at  times  'tis  as  well  for  him  she's  polled. 
Yet  all  he  says  is  'Patience.*  But  /  say,  will  patience  keep  us 
all  from  rack  and  ruin?" 

And  he  went  away  shaking  his  head. 

"Why  did  you  laugh?"  stormed  Joscelyn,  as  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  earshot. 

"How  could  I  help  it?"  pleaded  Martin.  "When  the  old 
man  laughed  because  you  laughed,  and  you  laughed  for  an- 
other reason — hadn't  I  a  third  reason  to  laugh?  But  how  you 
glared  at  me!  I  am  sorry  I  laughed.  Let  us  have  break- 
fast." 

"You  think  of  nothing  but  mealtimes,"  said  Joscelyn  crossly; 
and  she  carried  Gillian's  bread  to  the  Well-House,  where  she 
discovered  only  the  little  round  top  of  yesterday's  loaf.  For 
every  crumb  of  the  bigger  half  had  been  eaten.  So  Joscelyn 
came  away  all  smiles,  tossing  the  ball  of  bread  in  the  air,  and 
saying  as  she  caught  it,  "I  do  believe  Gillian  is  forgetting  her 
sorrow." 

"I  am  certain  of  it,"  agreed  Martin,  clapping  his  hands.  And 
she  flung  the  top  of  the  loaf  to  his  right,  and  he  made  a  great 
leap  to  the  left  and  caught  it.  And  then  he  threw  it  to  Jessica, 
who  tossed  it  to  Joan,  who  sent  it  to  Joyce,  who  whirled  it  to 
Jennifer,  who  spun  it  to  Jane,  who  missed  it.  And  all  the  girls 
ran  to  pick  it  up  first,  but  Martin  with  a  dexterous  kick  landed 
it  in  the  duckpond,  where  the  drake  got  it.  And  he  and  the 
ducks  squabbled  over  it  during  the  next  hour,  while  Martin  and 
the  milkmaids  breakfasted  on  bread  and  apples  with  no  squab- 
bling and  great  good  spirits. 

And  after  breakfast  Martin  lay  on  his  back,  chewing  a  grass- 
blade  and  counting  the  florets  on  another,  whispering  to  him- 
self as  he  plucked  them  one  by  one.    And  the  girls  watched  him. 


i82    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

He  did  it  several  times  with  several  blades  of  grass,  and  always 
looked  disappointed  at  the  end. 

"Won't  it  come  right?"  asked  little  Joan. 

"Won't  what  come  right?"  said  Martin. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you're  doing,"  said  little  Joan;  and  she 
too  plucked  a  blade  and  began  to  count — 

"Tinker, 
Tailor, 
Soldier, 
Sailor"— 

"I'm  sure  I  wasn't,"  said  Martin.    "Tailor  indeed!" 

"Well,  something  like  that,"  said  Joan. 

"Nothing  at  all  like  that.  Oh,  Mistress  Joan!  a  tailor. 
Why,  even  if  I  were  a  maid  like  yourselves,  do  you  think  I'd 
give  fate  the  chance  to  set  me  on  my  husband's  cross-knees  for 
the  rest  of  my  life?" 

"What  would  you  do  then  if  you  were  a  maid?"  asked 
Joyce. 

"If  I  were  a  town-maid,"  said  Martin,  "I  should  choose  the 
most  delightful  husbands  in  the  city  streets."  And  plucking  a 
fresh  blade  he  counted  aloud, 

"Ballad- 
singer, 
Churchbell- 
ringer, 

Chimneysiveep, 
Muffin-man, 
Lamplighter, 
King! 
Ballad- 
singer, 
Churchbell- 
ringer, 
Chimneysiueep" — 

"There,  Mistress  Joyce,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "I  should 
marry  a  Sweep  and  sit  in  the  tall  chimneys  and  see  stars  by 
daylight." 

"Oh,  let  me  try!"  cried  Joyce. 

And — "Let  me!"  cried  five  other  voices  at  once. 

So  he  chose  each  girl  a  blade,  and  she  counted  her  fate  on  it, 
with  Martin  to  prompt  her.  And  Jessica  got  the  Chimney- 
sweep, and  vowed  she  saw  Orion's  belt  round  the  sun,  and  Jen- 
nifer got  the  Lamplighter  and  looked  sorrowful,  for  she  too 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     183 

wished  to  see  stars  in  the  morning;  but  Martin  consoled  her 
by  saying  that  she  would  make  the  dark  to  shine,  and  set  whis- 
pering lights  in  the  fog,  when  men  had  none  other  to  see  by. 
And  Joyce  got  the  Muffin-man,  and  Martin  told  her  that  wher- 
ever she  went  men,  women,  and  children  would  run  to  their 
snowy  doorsteps,  for  she  would  be  as  welcome  as  swallows  in 
spring.  And  Jane  got  the  Bell-Ringer,  and  Martin  said  an 
angel  must  have  blessed  her  birth,  since  she  was  to  live  and  die 
with  the  peals  of  heaven  in  her  ears.  And  Joscelyn  got  the 
Ballad-Singer. 

"What  about  Ballad-Singers,  Master  Pippin?"  asked  Josce- 
lyn. 

"Nothing  at  all  about  Ballad-Singers,"  said  Martin. 
"They're  a  poor  lot.     I'm  sorry  for  you." 

And  Joscelyn  threw  her  stripped  blade  away  saying,  "It's 
only  a  silly  game." 

But  little  Joan  got  the  King.  And  she  looked  at  Martin, 
and  he  smiled  at  her,  and  had  no  need  to  say  anything,  because 
a  king  is  a  king.  And  suddenly  every  girl  must  needs  grow  out 
of  sorts  with  her  fate,  and  find  other  blades  to  count,  until 
each  one  had  achieved  a  king  to  her  satisfaction.  All  but 
Joscelyn,  who  said  she  didn't  care. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Martin,  "because  none  of  this 
applies  to  any  of  you.  These  are  town-fortunes,  and  you  are 
country-maids." 

And  he  plucked  a  new  blade,  reciting, 

"Moixier, 
Reaper, 
Poacher, 
Keeper, 
Coivman, 
Thatcher, 
Plovjman, 
Herd." 

"How  dull!"  said  Jessica.     "These  are  men  for  every  day." 

"So  is  a  husband,"  said  Martin.  "And  to  your  town-girls, 
who  no  longer  see  romance  in  a  Chimneysweep,  your  Poacher's 
a  Pirate  and  your  Shepherd  a  Poet.  Could  you  not  find  it  in 
your  heart.  Mistress  Jessica,  to  put  up  with  a  Thatcher?" 

"That's  enough  of  husbands,"  said  Jessica. 

"Then  what  of  houses?"  said  Martin.  "Where  shall  we 
live  when  we're  wed  ? — 


i84    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

'Under  a  thatch. 

In  a  ship's  hatch, 

An  inn,  a  castle, 

A  broiun  paper  parcel' — 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  said  Joscelyn. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  rime,"  begged  Martin.  But  the  girls 
were  not  interested  in  houses.  Yet  the  rest  of  the  morning  they 
went  searching  the  orchard  for  the  grass  of  fortune,  and  not  tell- 
ing. But  once  Martin,  coming  behind  Jessica,  distinctly  heard 
her  murmur  "Thatcher!"  and  smile.  And  at  another  time  he 
saw  Joyce  deliberately  count  her  blade  before  beginning,  and 
nip  off  a  floret,  and  then  begin;  and  the  end  was  "Plowman." 
And  presently  little  Joan  came  and  knelt  beside  him  where  he 
sat  counting  on  his  own  behalf,  and  said  timidly,  "Martin." 

"Yes,  dear?"  said  Martin  absentmindedly. 

"Oh.     Martin,  is  it  very  wicked  to  poach?" 

"The  best  men  all  do  it,"  said  Martin. 

"Oh.     Please,  what  are  you  counting?" 

"You  swear  you  won't  tell?"  said  Martin,  with  a  side-glance 
at  her.  She  shook  her  head,  and  he  pulled  at  his  grass  whisper- 
ing— 

"Jennifer, 
Jessica, 
Jane, 
Joan, 
Joyce, 
Joscelyn, 
Gillian—" 

"And  the  last  one?"  said  little  Joan,  with  a  rosy  face;  for 
he  had  paused  at  the  eighth. 

"Sh!"  said  Martin,  and  stuck  his  blade  behind  his  ear  and 
called  "Dinner!" 

So  they  came  to  dinner. 

"Have  you  not  found,"  said  Martin,  "that  after  thinking  all 
the  morning  it  is  necessary  to  jump  all  the  afternoon  ?"  And  he 
got  the  ropes  of  the  swing  and  began  to  skip  with  great  clumsi- 
ness, always  failing  before  ten,  and  catching  the  cord  round  his 
ankles.  At  which  the  girls  plied  him  with  derision,  and  said 
they  would  show  him  how.  And  Jane  showed  him  how  to  skip 
forwards,  and  Jessica  how  to  skip  backwards,  and  Jennifer  how 
to  skip  with  both  feet  and  stay  in  one  spot,  and  Joyce  how 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     185 

to  skip  on  either  foot,  on  a  run.  And  Joscelyn  showed  him  how 
to  skip  with  the  rope  crossed  and  uncrossed  by  turns.  But  little 
Joan  showed  him  how  to  skip  so  high  and  so  lightly  that  she 
could  whirl  the  rope  twice  under  her  feet  before  they  came 
down  to  earth  like  birds.  And  then  the  girls  took  the  ropes 
by  turns,  ringing  the  changes  on  all  these  ways  of  skipping;  or 
two  of  them  would  turn  a  rope  for  the  others,  while  they 
skipped  the  games  of  their  grandmothers:  "Cross  the  Bible," 
"All  in  together,"  "Lady,  lady,  drop  your  purse!"  and  "Cin- 
derella lost  her  shoe;"  or  they  turned  two  ropes  at  once  for 
the  Double  Dutch;  and  Martin  took  his  run  with  the  rest. 
And  at  first  he  did  very  badly,  but  as  the  day  wore  on  im- 
proved, until  by  evening  he  was  whirling  the  rope  three  times 
under  his  feet  that  glanced  against  each  other  in  mid-air  like  the 
knife  and  the  steel.  And  the  girls  clapped  their  hands  because 
they  couldn't  help  it,  and  Joan  said  breathlessly: 

"How  quick  you  are!  it  took  me  ten  days  to  do  that." 

And  Martin  answered  breathlessly,  "How  quick  you  were! 
it  took  me  ten  years." 

"Are  you  ever  honest  about  anything.  Master  Pippin?"  said 
Joscelyn  petulantly. 

"Three  times  a  day,"  said  Martin,  "I  am  honestly  hungry." 

So  they  had  supper. 

Supper  done,  they  clustered  as  usual  about  the  story-telling 
tree,  and  Martin  looked  inquiringly  from  Jane  to  Joscelyn 
and  from  Joscelyn  to  Jane.  And  Joscelyn's  expression  was 
one  of  uncontrolled  indifference,  and  Jane's  expression  was 
one  of  bridled  excitement.  So  Martin  ignored  Joscelyn  and 
asked  Jane  w^hat  she  was  thinking  about. 

"A  great  number  of  things,  Master  Pippin,"  said  she. 
"There  is  always  so  much  to  think  about." 

"Is  there?"  said  Martin. 

"Oh,  surely  you  know  there  is.  How  could  you  tell  stories 
else?" 

"I  never  think  when  I  tell  stories,"  said  Martin.  "I  give 
them  a  push  and  let  them  swing." 

"Oh  but,"  said  Jane,  "it  is  very  dangerous  to  speak  with- 
out thinking.     One  might  say  anything." 

"One  does,"  agreed  Martin,  "and  then  anything  happens. 
But  people  who  think  before  speaking  often  end  by  saying 
nothing.     And  so  nothing  happens." 


i86    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

'Terhaps  it's  as  well,"  said  Joyce  slyly. 

"Yet  the  world  must  go  round,  Mistress  Joyce.  And 
swings  were  made  to  swing.  Do  you  think,  Mistress  Jane, 
if  you  sat  in  the  swing  I  should  think  twice,  or  even  once, 
before  giving  it  a  push?" 

Jane  considered  this,  and  then  said  gravely,  "I  think,  Master 
Pippin,  you  would  have  to  think  at  least  once  before  pushing 
the  swing  to-night;  because  it  isn't  there." 

"What  a  wise  little  milkmaid  you  are,"  said  Martin,  looking 
about  for  the  skipping-ropes. 

"Yes,"  said  Jessica,  "Jane  is  wiser  than  any  of  us.  She 
is  extremely  wise.     I  wonder  you  hadn't  noticed   it." 

"Oh,  but  I  had,"  said  Martin  earnestly,  fixing  the  swinging 
ropes  to  their  places.  "There,  Mistress  Jane,  let  me  help  you 
in,  and  I  will  give  you  a  push." 

He  offered  her  his  hand  respectfully,  and  Jane  took  it  say- 
ing, "I  don't  like  swinging  very  high." 

"I  will  think  before  I  push,"  said  Martin.  And  when  she 
was  settled,  with  her  skirts  in  order  and  her  little  feet  tucked 
back,  he  rocked  the  swing  so  gently  that  not  an  apple  fell  nor 
a  milkmaid  slipped,  clambering  to  her  place.  And  Martin 
leaned  back  in  his  and  shut  his  eyes. 

"We  are  waiting,"  observed  Joscelyn  overhead. 

"So  am  I,"  sighed  Martin. 

"For  what?" 

"For  a  push." 

"But  you're  not  swinging." 

"Neither's  my  story.  And  it  will  take  seven  pair  of  arms 
to  set  it  going."  And  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Gillian  in  her 
sorrow,  but  she  did  not  lift  her  face. 

"Here's  six  to  start  the  motion  of  themselves,"  said  Josce- 
lyn, "and  it  only  remains  to  you  to  attract  the  seventh  willy- 
nilly." 

"It  were  easier,"  said  Martin,  "to  unlock  Saint  Peter's 
Gates  with  cowslips." 

"I  was  not  talking  of  impossibilities.  Master  Pippin,"  said 
Joscelyn. 

"Why,  neither  was  I,"  said  Martin;  "for  did  you  never 
hear  that  cowslips,  among  all  the  golden  flowers  of  spring, 
are  the  Keys  of  Heaven?" 

And  sending  a  little  chime  from  his  lute  across  the  Well- 
House  he  sang — 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     187 

She  lost  the  keys  of  heaven 

Walking   in   a   shadoiu. 

Sighing  for  her  lad  O 
She  lost  her   keys   of  heaven. 
She  saiv  the  boys  and  girls  luho  flocked 
Beyond  the  gates  all  barred  and  locked — 
And  oh!  sighed  she,  the  locks  are  seven 

Betvjixt  me  and  my  lad  O, 
And  I  have  lost  my  keys  of  heaven 

fValking  in  a  shadow. 

She  found  the  keys  of  heaven 

All  in  a  May  meadow, 

Singing  for  her  lad  O 
She  found  her  keys  of  heaven. 
She  found  them  made  of  cowslip  gold 
Springing  seven-thousandfold — 
And  oh!  sang  she,  ere  fall  of  even 

Shall  I  not  be  lued  O? 
For  I  have  found  my  keys  of  heaven 

All  in  a  May  meadow. 

By  the  end  of  the  song  Gillian  was  kneeling  upright  among 
the  mallows,  and  with  her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin  was 
gazing  across  the  duckpond. 

"Well,  well!"  exclaimed  Joscelyn,  "cowslips  may,  or  may 
not,  have  the  power  to  unlock  the  heavenly  gates.  But  there's 
no  denying  that  a  very  silly  song  has  unlocked  our  Mistress's 
lethargy.  So  I  advise  you  to  seize  the  occasion  to  swing  your 
tale  on  its  way." 

"Then  here  goes,"  said  Martin,  "and  I  only  pray  you  to 
set  your  sympathies  also  in  motion  while  I  endeavor  to  keep 
them  going  with  the  story  of  Proud  Rosalind  and  the  Hart- 
Royal." 


PROUD  ROSALIND  AND  THE  HART-ROYAL 

THERE  was  once,  dear  maidens,  a  man-of-all-trades  who 
lived  by  the  Ferry  at  Bury.  And  nobody  knew  where 
he  came  from.  For  the  chief  of  his  trades  he  was  an 
armorer,  for  it  was  in  the  far-away  times  when  men  thought 
danger  could  only  be  faced  and  honor  won  in  a  case  of  steel; 
not  having  learned  that  either  against  danger  or  for  honor 
the  naked  heart  is  the  fittest  wear.  So  this  man,  whose  name 
was  Harding,  kept  his  fires  going  for  men's  needs,  and  women's 
too;  for  besides  making  and  mending  swords  and  knives  and 
greaves  for  the  one,  he  would  also  make  brooches  and  buckles 
and  chains  for  the  other;  and  tools  for  the  peasants.  They 
sometimes  called  him  the  Red  Smith.  In  person  Harding  was 
ruddy,  though  his  fairness  differed  from  the  fairness  of  the 
natives,  and  his  speech  was  not  wholly  their  speech.  He  was 
a  man  of  mighty  brawn  and  stature,  his  eyes  gleamed  like  blue 
ice  seen  under  a  fierce  sun,  the  hair  of  his  head  and  his  beard 
glittered  like  red  gold,  and  the  finer  hair  on  his  great  arms 
and  breast  overlaid  with  an  amber  sheen  the  red-bronze  of 
his  skin.  He  seemed  a  man  made  to  move  the  mountains  of 
the  world ;  j^et  truth  to  tell,  he  was  a  most  indifferent  smith. 

(Martin:     Are  you  not  quite  comfortable,  Mistress  Jane? 
Jane:     I  am  perfectly  comfortable,  thank  you.  Master  Pip- 
pin. 

Martin:     I  fancied  you  were  a  trifle  unsettled. 
Jane:     No,  indeed.     What  should  unsettle  me? 
Martin:     I  haven't  the  ghost  of  a  notion.) 

I  have  heard  gossips  tell,  but  it  has  since  been  forgotten 
or  discredited,  that  this  part  of  the  river  was  then  known 
as  Wayland's  Ferry;  for  this,  it  was  said,  was  one  of  the 
several  places  in  England  where  the  spirit  lurked  of  Wayland 
the  Smith,  who  was  the  cunningest  worker  in  metal  ever  told 
of  in  song  or  story,  and  he  had  come  overseas  from  the  North 
where  men  worshiped  him  as  a  god.     No  one  in  Bury  had 

x88 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     189 

ever  seen  the  shape  of  Wayland,  but  all  believed  in  him  de- 
voutly, for  this  was  told  of  him,  and  truly:  that  any  one  com- 
ing to  the  ferry  with  an  unshod  steed  had  only  to  lay  a  penny 
on  the  ground  and  cry  aloud,  "Wayland  Smith,  shoe  me  my 
horse!"  and  so  withdraw.  And  on  coming  again  he  would  find 
his  horse  shod  with  a  craft  unknown  to  human  hands,  and 
his  penny  gone.  And  nobody  thought  of  attributing  to  Hard- 
ing the  work  of  Wayland,  partly  because  no  human  smith 
Mould  have  worked  for  so  mean  a  fee  as  was  accepted  by  the 
god,  and  chiefly  because  the  quality  of  the  workmanship  of 
the  man  and  the  god  was  as  dissimilar  as  that  of  clay  and 
gold.  ,  .  . 

Besides  his  trade  in  metal,  Harding  also  plied  the  ferry;, 
and  then  men  would  speak  of  him  as  the  Red  Boatman.  But 
he  could  not  be  depended  on,  for  he  was  often  absent.  His 
boat  was  of  a  curious  shape,  not  like  any  other  boat  seen  on 
the  Arun.  Its  prow  was  curved  like  a  bird's  beak.  And  when 
folk  wished  to  go  across  to  the  Amberley  flats  that  lie  under 
the  splendid  shell  which  was  once  a  castle,  Harding  would 
carry  them,  if  he  was  there  and  neither  too  busy  nor  too  surly. 
And  when  they  asked  the  fee  he  always  said,  "When  I  work 
in  metal  I  take  metal.  But  for  that  which  flows  I  take  only 
that  which  flows.  So  give  me  whatever  you  have  heart  to 
give,  as  long  as  it  is  not  coin."  And  they  gave  him  willingly 
anything  they  had :  a  flower,  or  an  egg,  or  a  bird's  feather. 
A  child  once  gave  him  her  curl,  and  a  man  his  hand. 

And  when  he  was  neither  in  his  workshed  or  his  boat,  he 
hunted  on  the  hills.  But  this  was  a  trade  he  put  to  no  man's 
service.  Harding  hunted  only  for  himself.  And  because  he 
served  his  own  pleasure  more  passionately  than  he  served 
others',  and  was  oftener  seen  with  his  bow  than  with  hammer 
or  oar,  he  was  chiefly  known  as  the  Red  Hunter.  Often  in 
the  late  of  the  year  he  would  be  away  on  the  great  hills  of 
Bury  and  Bignor  and  Houghton  and  Rewell,  with  their  beech- 
woods  burning  on  their  sides  and  in  their  hollows,  and  their 
rolling  shoulders  lifted  out  of  those  autumn  fires  to  meet  in 
freedom  the  freedom  of  the  clouds. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  huntings  he  came  on  the  Wishing-Pool. 
This  pool  had  for  long  been  a  legend  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
it  was  said  that  whoever  had  courage  to  seek  it  in  the  hour 
before  midnight  on  Midsummer  Eve,  and  thrice  utter  her  wish 
aloud,  would  surely  have  that  wish  granted  within  the  year. 


I90    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

But  with  time  it  had  become  a  lost  secret,  perhaps  because  its 
ancient  reputation  as  the  haunt  of  goblin  things  had  long  since 
sapped  the  courage  of  the  maidens  of  those  parts;  and  only 
great-grandmothers  remembered  now  that  once  their  grand- 
mothers had  tried  their  fortunes  there.  And  its  whereabouts 
had  been  forgotten. 

But  one  September  Harding  saw  a  calf-stag  on  Great  Down. 
There  were  wild  deer  on  the  hills  then,  but  such  a  calf  he 
had  never  seen  before.  So  he  stalked  it  over  Madehurst  and 
Rewell,  and  followed  it  into  the  thick  of  Rewell  Wood.  And 
when  it  led  him  to  its  drinking-place,  he  knew  that  he  had 
discovered  one  more  secret  of  the  hills,  and  that  this  somber 
mere  wherein  strange  waters  bubbled  in  whispers  could  be  no 
other  than  the  lost  Wishing-Pool.  The  young  calf  might  have 
been  its  magic  guard.  To  Harding  it  was  a  discovery  more 
precious  than  the  mere.  For  all  that  it  was  of  the  first  year, 
with  its  prickets  only  showing  where  its  antlers  would  branch 
in  time,  it  was  of  a  breed  so  fine  and  a  build  so  noble  that  its 
matchless  noon  could  already  be  foretold  from  its  matchless 
dawn ;  and  added  to  all  its  strength  and  grace  and  beauty  was 
this  last  marvel,  that  though  it  was  of  the  tribe  of  the  Red 
Deer,  its  skin  was  as  white  and  speckless  as  falling  snow. 
Watching  it,  the  Red  Smith  said  to  himself,  "Not  yet  my 
quarry.  You  are  of  king's  stock,  and  if  after  the  sixth  year 
you  show  twelve  points,  you  shall  be  for  me.  But  first,  my 
hart-royal,  you  shall  get  your  growth."  And  he  came  away 
and  told  no  man  of  the  calf  or  of  the  pool. 

And  in  the  second  year  he  watched  for  it  by  the  mere,  and 
saw  it  come  to  drink,  no  longer  a  calf,  but  a  lovely  brocket, 
with  its  brow  antlers  making  its  first  two  points.  And  in 
the  third  year  he  watched  for  it  again,  no  brocket  now  but 
a  splendid  spayade,  which  to  its  brows  had  added  its  shooting 
bays;  and  in  the  fourth  year  the  spayade  had  become  a  proud 
young  staggarde,  with  its  trays  above  its  bays.  And  in  the  fifth 
year  the  staggarde  was  a  full-named  stag,  crowned  with  the 
exquisite  twin  crowns  of  its  crockets,  surmounting  tray  and 
bay  and  brow.  And  Harding  lying  hidden  gloried  in  it,  think- 
ing, "All  your  points  now  but  two,  my  quarry.  And  next 
year  you  shall  add  the  beam  to  the  crown,  and  I  will  hunt  my 
hart." 

Now  at  the  time  when  Harding  first  saw  the  calf,  and 
the  ruin  of  the  castle  across  the  ferry  was  only  a  ruin,  not 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     191 

fit  for  habitation,  it  was  nevertheless  inhabited  by  the  Proud 
Rosalind,  who  dwelt  there  without  kith  or  kin.  And  if  time 
had  crumbled  the  castle  to  its  last  nobility,  so  that  all  that 
was  strong  and  beautiful  in  it  was  preserved  and,  as  it  were, 
exposed  in  nakedness  to  the  eyes  of  men:  so  in  her,  \\4io  was 
the  ruins  of  her  family,  was  preserved  and  exposed  all  that 
had  been  most  noble^  strong  and  beautiful  in  her  race.  She 
was  as  poor  as  she  was  friendless,  but  her  pride  outmatched 
both  these  things.  So  great  was  her  pride  that  she  learned 
to  endure  shame  for  the  sake  of  it.  She  had  a  tall  straight 
figure  that  was  both  strong  and  graceful,  and  she  carried  her- 
self like  a  tree.  Her  hair  was  neither  bronze  nor  gold  nor 
copper,  yet  seemed  to  be  an  alloy  of  all  the  precious  mines  of 
the  turning  year — the  vigorous  dusky  gold  of  November  elms, 
the  rust  of  dead  bracken  made  living  by  heavy  rains,  the  color 
of  beechmast  drenched  with  sunlight  after  frost,  and  all  the 
layers  of  glory  on  the  boughs  before  it  fell,  when  it  needed 
neither  sun  nor  dew  to  make  it  glow.  All  these  could  be  seen 
in  different  lights  upon  her  heavy  hair,  which  when  unbound 
hung  as  low  as  her  knees.  Her  thick  brows  were  dark  gold, 
and  her  fearless  eyes  dark  gray  with  gold  gleams  in  them. 
They  may  have  been  reflections  from  her  lashes,  or  even  from 
her  skin,  which  had  upon  it  the  bloom  of  a  golden  plum.  Dim 
ages  since  her  fathers  had  been  kings  in  Sussex ;  gradually  their 
estate  had  diminished,  but  with  the  lessening  of  their  worldly 
possessions  they  burnished  the  brighter  the  possession  of  their 
honor,  and  bred  the  care  of  it  in  their  children  jealously.  So 
it  came  to  pass  that  Rosalind,  who  possessed  less  than  any  serf 
or  yeoman  in  the  countryside,  trod  among  these  as  though  she 
were  a  queen,  dreaming  of  a  degree  which  she  had  never 
known,  ignored  or  shrugged  at  by  those  whom  she  accounted 
her  equals,  insulted  or  gibed  at  by  those  she  thought  her  in- 
feriors. For  the  dwellers  in  the  neighboring  hamlets,  to  whom 
the  story  of  her  fathers'  fathers  was  only  a  legend,  saw  in  her 
just  a  shabby  girl,  less  worthy  than  themselves  because  much 
poorer,  whose  pride  and  very  beauty  aroused  their  mockery  and 
wrath.  They  did  not  dispute  her  possession  of  the  castle. 
For  what  to  them  were  four  vast  roofless  walls,  enclosing  a 
square  of  greensward  underfoot  and  another  of  blue  air  over- 
head, and  pierced  with  doorless  doorways  and  windowless  case- 
ments that  let  in  all  the  lights  of  all  the  quarters  of  the  sky? 
What  to  them  were  these  traces  of  old  chambers  etched  on  the 


192    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

surface  of  the  old  gray  stone,  these  fragments  of  lovely  arches 
that  were  but  channels  for  the  winds?  In  the  thick  of  the 
great  towered  gateway  one  little  room  remained  above  the 
arch,  and  here  the  maiden  slept.  And  all  her  company  was 
the  ghosts  of  her  race.  She  saw  them  feasting  in  the  halls 
of  the  air,  and  moving  on  the  courtyard  of  the  grass.  At  night 
in  the  galleries  of  the  stars  she  heard  their  singing;  and  often, 
looking  through  the  empty  windows  over  the  flats  to  which 
the  great  west  wall  dropped  down,  she  saw  them  ride  in  caval- 
cade out  of  the  sunset,  from  battle  or  hunt  or  tourney.  But 
the  peasants,  who  did  not  know  what  she  saw  and  heard,  pre- 
ferred their  snug  squalor  to  this  shivering  nobility,  and  de- 
spised the  girl  who,  in  a  fallen  fortress,  defended  her  life 
from  theirs. 

At  first  she  had  kept  her  distance  with  a  kind  of  gracious- 
ness,  but  one  day  in  her  sixteenth  year  a  certain  boor  met  her 
under  the  castle  wall  as  she  was  returning  with  sticks  for 
kindling,  and  was  struck  by  her  free  and  noble  carriage;  for 
though  she  was  little  more  than  a  child,  through  all  her  rags 
she  shone  with  the  grace  and  splendor  not  only  of  her  race, 
but  of  the  wild  life  she  lived  on  the  hills  when  she  was  not 
in  her  ruins.  She  was  as  strong  and  fine  as  a  young  hind, 
and  could  run  like  any  deer  upon  the  Downs,  and  climb  like 
any  squirrel.  And  the  dull-sighted  peasant,  seeing  as  though 
for  the  first  time  her  untamed  beauty,  on  an  impulse  offered 
to  kiss  her  and  make  her  his  woman. 

Rosalind  stared  at  him  like  one  aroused  from  sleep  with 
a  rude  blow.  The  color  flamed  in  her  cheek.  "You  to  accost 
so  one  of  my  blood?"  she  cried.  "Mongrel,  go  back  to  your 
kennel!" 

The  lout  gaped  between  rage  and  mortification,  and,  mutter- 
ing, made  a  step  towards  her;  but  suddenly  seeming  to  think 
better  of  it,  stumbled  away. 

Then  Rosalind,  lifting  her  glowing  face,  as  beautiful  as  sun- 
set with  its  double  flush,  rose  under  gold,  saw  Harding  the 
Red  Hunter  gazing  at  her.  Some  business  had  brought  him 
over  the  ferry,  and  on  his  road  he  had  lit  upon  the  suit  and  its 
rejection.  Rosalind,  her  spirit  chafed  with  what  had  passed, 
returned  his  gaze  haughtily.  But  he  maintained  his  steadfast 
look  as  though  he  had  been  hewn  out  of  stone;  and  presently, 
impatient  and  disdainful,  she  turned  away.  Then,  and  in- 
stantly, Harding  pursued  his  way  in  silence.     And   Rosalind 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     193 

grew  somehow  aware  that  he  had  determined  to  stand  at  gaze 
until  her  eyes  were  lowered.  Thereupon  she  classed  his  pre- 
sumption with  that  of  the  other  who  had  dared  address  her, 
and  hated  him  for  taking  part  against  her.  Near  as  their 
dwellings  were,  divided  only  by  the  river  and  a  breadth  of 
water-meadow,  their  intercourse  had  always  been  of  the  slight- 
est, for  Harding  possessed  a  reserve  as  great  as  her  own. 
But  from  this  hour  their  intercourse  ceased  entirely. 

The  boor  mis-spread  the  tale  of  her  overweening  pride 
through  the  hamlet,  and  when  next  she  appeared  there  she  was 
greeted  with  derision. 

"This  is  she  that  holds  herself  unfit  to  mate  with  an  honest 
man!"  cried  some.  And  others,  "Nay,  do  but  see  the  silken 
gown  of  the  great  lady  Rosalind,  see  the  fine  jewels  of  her!" 
"She  thinks  she  outshines  the  Queen  of  Bramber's  self!"  scoffed 
a  woman.  And  a  man  demanded,  "What  blood's  good  enough 
to  mix  with  hers,  if  ours  be  not?" 

"A  king's!"  flashed  Rosalind.  And  even  as  she  spoke  the 
jeering  throng  parted  to  let  one  by  that  elbowed  his  way 
among  them ;  and  a  second  time  she  saw  the  Red  Hunter  come 
to  halt  and  fix  her  before  all  the  people.  Now  this  time,  she 
vowed  silently,  you  may  gaze  till  night  fall  and  day  rise  again. 
Red  Man,  if  you  think  to  lower  my  eyes  in  the  presence  of 
these!  So  she  stood  and  looked  him  in  the  face  like  a  queen, 
all  her  spirit  nerving  her,  and  the  people  knew  it  to  be  battle 
between  them.  Harding's  great  arms  were  folded  across  his 
breast,  and  on  his  countenance  was  no  expressiveness  at  all; 
but  a  strange  light  grew  and  brightened  in  his  eyes,  till  little 
by  little  all  else  was  blurred  and  hazy  in  the  girl's  sight,  and 
blue  fire  seemed  to  lap  her  from  her  tawny  hair  to  her  bare 
feet.  Then  she  knew  nothing  except  that  she  must  look  away 
or  burn.  And  her  eyes  fell.  Harding  walked  past  her  as  he 
had  done  before,  and  not  till  he  was  out  of  hearing  did  the 
bystanders  begin  their  crueltj\ 

"A  king's  blood  for  the  lady  that  droops  to  a  common 
smith !"  cried  they. 

"She  shall  swing  his  hammer  for  a  scepter!"  cried  they. 

"  'Shall  sit  on's  anvil  for  a  throne!"  cried  they. 

"  'Shall  queen  it  in  a  leathern  apron  o'  Sundays!"  cried  they. 

Rosalind  fled  amid  their  howls  of  laughter.  She  hated  them 
all,  and  far  beyond  them  all  she  hated  him  who  had  lowered 
her  head  in  their  sight. 


194    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

It  was  after  this  that  the  Proud  Rosalind — 

(But  here,  without  even  troubling  to  finish  his  sentence, 
Martin  Pippin  suddenly  thrust  with  his  foot  at  the  seat  of 
the  swing,  nearly  dislodging  Jane  with  the  action;  who 
screamed  and  clutched  first  at  the  ropes,  and  next  at  the 
branches  as  she  went  up,  and  last  of  all  at  Martin  as  she  came 
down.  She  clutched  him  so  piteously  that  in  pure  pity  he 
clutched  her,  and  lifting  her  bodily  out  of  her  peril  set  her 
on  his  knee. 

Martin  {with  great  concern) :  Are  you  better.  Mistress 
Jane? 

Jane:     Where  are  your  manners,  Master  Pippin? 

Martin:  My  mother  mislaid  them  before  I  was  born. 
But  are  you  better  now? 

Jane:     I  am  not  sure.     I  was  very  much  upset. 

Martin:     So  was  I. 

Jane:     It  was  all  your  doing. 

Martin:     I  could  have  sworn  it  was  half  yours. 

Jane:     Who  disturbed  the  swing,  pray? 

Martin  :  Every  effect  proceeds  from  its  cause.  The  swing 
was  disturbed  because  I  was  disturbed. 

Jane  :  Every  cause  once  had  its  effect.  What  effected  your 
disturbance.  Master  Pippin? 

Martin  :     Yours,  Mistress  Jane. 

Jane:     Mine? 

Martin:     Confess  that  you  were  disturbed. 

Jane:     Yes,  and  with  good  cause. 

Martin:  I  can't  doubt  it.  Yet  that  was  the  mischief,  I 
could  find  no  logical  cause  for  your  disturbance.  And  an 
illogical  world  proceeds  from  confusion  to  chaos.  For  want 
of  a  little  logic  my  foot  and  your  swing  passed  out  of  control. 

Jane:  The  logic  had  only  to  be  asked  for,  and  it  would 
have  been  forthcoming. 

Martin:     Is  it  too  late  to  ask? 

Jane:  It  is  never  too  late  to  be  reasonable.  But  why  am 
I  sitting  on —     Why  am  I  sitting  here? 

Martin:  For  the  best  of  reasons.  You  are  sitting  where 
you  are  sitting  because  the  swing  is  so  disturbed.  Please  teach 
me  to  be  reasonable,  dear  Mistress  Jane.  Why  were  you  dis- 
turbed ? 

Jane:     Very  well.     I  was  naturally  greatly  disturbed  to 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     195 

learn  that  your  heroine  hated  your  hero.  Because  it  is  your 
errand  to  relate  love-stories;  and  I  cannot  see  the  connection 
between  love  and  hate.  Could  two  things  more  antagonistic 
conclude  in  union? 

Martin  :     Yes. 

Jane:     What? 

Martin:  A  button  and  buttonhole.  For  one  is  something 
and  the  other  nothing,  and  what  in  the  very  nature  of  things 
could  be  more  antagonistic  than  these? 

So  saying,  he  tore  a  button  from  his  shirt  and  put  it  into  her 
hand.  "Don't  drop  it,"  said  Martin,  "because  I  haven't  an- 
other; and  besides,  every  button-hole  prefers  its  own  button. 
Yet  I  will  never  ask  you  to  re-unite  them  until  my  tale  proves 
to  your  satisfaction  that  out  of  antagonisms  unions  can  spring." 

"Very  well,"  said  Jane;  and  she  took  out  of  her  pocket  a 
neat  little  housewife  and  put  the  button  carefully  inside  it. 
Then  she  said,  "The  swing  is  quite  still  now." 

"But  are  you  sure  you  feel  better?"  said  Martin. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Jane.) 

It  was  after  this  (said  Martin)  that  the  Proud  Rosalind 
became  known  by  her  title.  It  was  fastened  on  her  in  deri- 
sion, and  when  she  heard  it  she  set  her  lips  and  thought: 
"What  they  speak  in  mockery  shall  be  the  truth."  And  the 
more  men  sought  to  shame  her,  the  prouder  she  bore  herself. 
She  ceased  all  commerce  with  them  from  this  time.  So  for 
five  years  she  lived  in  great  loneliness  and  want. 

But  gradually  she  came  to  know  that  even  this  existence 
of  friendless  want  was  not  to  be  life,  but  a  continual  struggle- 
with-death.  For  she  had  no  resources,  and  was  put  to  bitter 
shifts  if  she  would  live.  Hunger  nosed  at  hei  door,  and  she 
had  need  of  her  pride  to  clothe  her.  For  the  more  she  went 
wan  and  naked,  the  more  men  mocked  her  to  see  her  hold 
herself  so  high;  and  out  of  their  hearts  she  shut  that  charity 
which  she  would  never  have  endured  of  them.  If  she  had 
gone  kneeling  to  their  doors  with  pitiful  hands,  saying,  "I 
starve,  not  having  wherewithal  to  eat ;  I  perish,  not  having 
wherewithal  to  cover  me" — they  would  perhaps  have  fed  and 
clothed  her,  aglow  with  self-content.  But  they  were  not  prompt 
with  the  charity  which  warms  the  object  only  and  not  the 
donor;  and  she  on  her  part  tried  to  appear  as  though  she  needed 
nothing  at  their  hands. 


196    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

One  evening  when  the  woods  were  in  full  leaf,  and  summer 
on  the  edge  of  its  zenith,  Proud  Rosalind  walked  among  the 
trees  seeking  green  herbs  for  soup.  She  had  wandered  far 
afield,  because  there  were  no  woods  near  the  castle,  standing 
on  its  high  ground  above  the  open  flats  and  the  river  beyond. 
But  gazing  over  the  water  she  could  see  the  groves  and  crests 
upon  the  hills  where  some  sustenance  was.  The  swift  way 
was  over  the  river,  but  there  was  no  boat  to  serve  her  except 
Harding's;  and  this  was  a  service  she  had  never  asked  of  old, 
and  lately  would  rather  have  died  than  ask.  So  she  took  daily 
to  the  winding  roads  that  led  to  a  distant  bridge  and  fhe  hills 
with  their  forests.  This  day  her  need  was  at  its  sorest.  When 
she  had  gathered  a  meager  crop  she  sat  down  under  a  tree, 
and  began  to  sort  out  the  herbs  upon  her  knees.  One  tender 
leaf  she  could  not  resist  taking  between  her  teeth,  that  had 
had  so  little  else  of  late  to  bite  on;  and  as  she  did  so  coarse 
laughter  broke  upon  her.  It  was  her  rude  suitor  who  had 
chanced  across  her  path,  and  he  mocked  at  her,  crying,  "This 
is  the  Proud  Rosalind  that  will  not  eat  at  an  honest  man's 
board,  choosing  rather  to  dine  after  the  high  fashion  of  the 
kine  and  asses!"  Then  from  his  pouch  he  snatched  a  crust 
of  bread  and  flung  it  to  her,  and  said,  "Proud  Rosalind,  will 
you  stoop  for  your  supper?" 

She  rose,  letting  the  precious  herbs  drop  from  her  lap,  and 
she  trod  them  into  the  earth  as  weeds  gathered  at  hazard,  so 
that  the  putting  of  the  leaf  between  her  lips  might  wear  an 
idle  aspect;  and  then  she  walked  away,  with  her  head  very 
high.  But  she  was  nearly  desperate  at  leaving  them  there, 
and  when  she  was  alone  her  pain  of  hunger  increased  beyond 
all  bounds.  And  she  sat  down  on  the  limb  of  a  great  beech 
and  leaned  her  brow  against  his  mighty  body,  and  shut  her 
eyes,  while  the  light  changed  in  the  sky.  And  presently  the 
leaves  of  the  forest  were  lit  by  the  moon  instead  of  the  sun, 
and  the  spaces  in  the  top  boughs  were  dark  blue  instead  of 
saffron,  and  the  small  clouds  were  no  longer  fragments  of 
amber,  but  bits  of  mottled  pearl  seen  through  sea-water.  But 
Rosalind  witnessed  none  of  these  slow  changes,  and  when 
after  a  great  while  she  lifted  her  faint  head,  she  saw  only 
that  the  day  was  changed  to  night.  And  on  the  other  side  of 
the  beech-tree,  touched  with  moonlight,  a  motionless  white 
stag  stood  watching  her.  It  was  a  hart  of  the  sixth  year,  and 
stood  already  higher  than  any  hart  of  the  twelfth;  full  five 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     197 

foot  high  it  stood,  and  its  grand  soft  shining  flanks  seemed 
to  be  molded  of  marble  for  their  grandeur,  and  silk  for  their 
smoothness,  and  moonlight  for  their  sheen.  Its  new  antlers 
were  branching  towards  their  yearly  strength,  and  the  triple- 
pointed  crowns  rose  proudly  from  the  beam  that  was  their 
last  perfection.  The  eyes  of  the  girl  and  the  beast  met  full, 
and  neither  wavered.  The  hart  came  to  her  noiselessly,  and 
laid  its  muzzle  on  her  hair,  and  when  she  put  her  hand  on 
its  pure  side  it  arched  its  noble  neck  and  licked  her  cheek. 
Then,  stepping  as  proudly  and  as  delicately  as  Rosalind's  self, 
it  moved  on  through  the  trees;  and  she  followed  it. 

The  forest  changed  from  beech  to  pine  and  fir.  It  deepened 
and  grew  strange  to  her.  She  did  not  know  it.  And  the 
light  of  the  sky  turned  here  from  silver  to  gray,  and  she  felt 
about  her  the  stir  of  unseen  things.  But  she  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  the  left,  but  followed  the  snow-white  hart  that 
went  before  her.  It  brought  her  at  last  to  its  own  drinking- 
place,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  it  old  rumors  gathered  them- 
selves into  a  truth,  and  she  knew  that  this  was  the  lost  Wish- 
ing-Pool.  And  she  remembered  that  this  night  was  Mid- 
summer Eve,  and  by  the  position  of  the  ghostly  moon  she  saw 
it  was  close  on  midnight.  So  she  knelt  down  by  the  edge 
of  the  mere,  and  stretched  her  hands  above  it,  the  palms  to 
the  stars,  and  in  a  low  clear  voice  she  made  her  prayer. 

"Whatever  spirit  dwells  under  these  waters,"  said  she,  "I 
know  not  whether  you  are  a  power  for  good  or  ill.  But  if  it 
is  true  that  you  will  answer  in  this  hour  the  need  of  any  that 
calls  on  you — oh,  Spirit,  my  need  is  very  great  to-night.  Hun- 
ger is  bitter  in  my  body,  and  my  strength  is  nearly  wasted.  A 
hind  cast  me  Ijis  crust  to-day,  and  five  hours  I  have  battled 
with  myself  not  to  creep  back  to  the  place  where  it  still  lies 
and  eat  of  that  vile  bread.  I  do  not  fear  to  die,  but  I  fear 
to  die  of  my  hunger  lest  they  sneer  at  the  last  of  my  race 
brought  low  to  so  mean  a  death.  Neither  will  I  die  by  my 
own  act,  lest  they  think  my  courage  broken  by  these  breaking 
days.  On  my  knees,"  said  she,  "I  beseech  you  to  send  me  in 
some  wise  a  little  money,  if  it  be  but  a  handful  of  pennies  now 
and  then  throughout  the  year,  so  that  I  may  keep  my  head 
unbowed.  Or  if  this  is  too  much  to  ask,  and  even  of  you  the 
asking  is  not  easy,  then  send  some  high  and  sudden  accident 
of  death  to  blot  me  out  before  I  grow  too  humble,  and  the 
lofty  spirits  of  my  fathers  deny  one  whose  spirit  ends  as  lowly 


198    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

as  their  dust.  Death  or  life  I  beg  of  you,  and  I  care  not 
which  you  send." 

Then  clasping  her  hands  tightly,  she  called  twice  more  her 
plea  across  the  mere:  "Spirit  of  these  waters,  grant  me  life 
or  death !    Oh,  Spirit,  grant  me  life  or  death !" 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  forest  as  she  made  an  end,  and  she 
remained  stock  still,  waiting  and  wondering.  But  though 
she  knelt  there  till  the  moon  had  crossed  the  bar  of  midnight, 
nothing  happened. 

Then  the  white  hart,  which  had  lain  beside  the  water  while 
she  prayed,  rose  silently  and  drank;  and  when  it  was  satisfied, 
laid  once  more  its  muzzle  on  her  hair  and  licked  her  cheek 
again  and  moved  away.  Not  a  twig  snapped  under  its  slender 
stepping.     Its  whiteness  was  soon  covered  by  the  blackness. 

Faint  and  exhausted,  Rosalind  arose.  She  dragged  herself 
through  the  wood  and  presently  found  the  broad  road  that 
curled  down  the  deserted  hill  and  over  the  bridge,  and  at 
last  by  a  branching  lane  to  her  ruined  dwelling.  The  door 
of  her  tower  creaked  desolately  to  and  fro  a  little,  open  as 
she  had  left  it.  She  pushed  it  further  ajar  and  stumbled  in 
and  up  the  narrow  stair.  But  the  pale  moonlight  entered  her 
chamber  with  her,  silvering  the  oaken  stump  that  was  her 
table;  and  there,  where  had  been  nothing,  she  beheld  two  little 
heaps  of  copper  coins. 

The  gold  year  waned,  and  the  next  passed  from  white  to 
green;  and  in  the  gold  Harding  began  to  hunt  his  hart,  and 
by  the  green  had  not  succeeded  in  bringing  it  to  bay.  Twice 
he  had  seen  it  at  a  distance  on  the  hills,  and  once  had  started 
it  from  cover  in  Coombe  Wood  and  followed  it  through  the 
Denture  and  Stammers,  Great  Bottom  and  Gumber,  Earthem 
Wood  and  Long  Down,  Nore  Hill  and  Little  Down;  and  at 
Punchbowl  Green  he  lost  it.  He  did  not  care.  A  long  chase 
had  whetted  him,  and  he  had  waited  so  long  that  he  was  will- 
ing to  wait  another  year,  and  if  need  were  two  or  three,  for 
his  royal  quarry.  He  knew  it  must  be  his  at  last,  and  he 
loved  it  the  more  for  the  speed  and  strength  and  cunning  with 
which  it  defied  him.  It  had  a  secret  lair  he  could  never  dis- 
cover; but  one  day  that  secret  too  should  be  his  own.  Mean- 
while his  blood  was  heated,  and  the  Red  Hunter  dreamed 
of  the  hart  and  of  one  other  thing. 

And  while  he  dreamed  Proud  Rosalind  grew  glad  and 
strong  on  her  miraculous  dole  of  money,  that  was  always  to 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     199 

her  hand  when  she  had  need  of  it.  Fear  went  out  of  her 
life,  for  she  knew  certainly  now  that  she  was  in  the  keeping 
of  unseen  powers,  and  would  not  lack  again.  And  little  by 
little  she  too  began  to  build  a  dream  out  of  her  pride;  for 
she  thought,  I  am  all  my  fathers'  house,  and  there  will  be  no 
honor  to  it  more  except  that  which  can  come  through  me.  And 
whenever  tales  went  about  of  the  fame  of  the  fair  young 
Queen  of  Bramber  Castle,  and  the  crowning  of  her  name  in 
this  tourney  and  in  that,  or  of  the  great  lords  and  princes 
that  would  have  died  for  one  smile  of  her  (yet  her  smiles 
came  easily,  and  her  kisses  too,  men  said),  Rosalind  knit  her 
brows,  and  her  longing  grew  a  little  stronger,  and  she  thought: 
If  arrows  and  steel  might  once  flash  lightnings  about  my 
father's  daughter,  and  cleave  the  shadows  that  have  hung  their 
webs  about  my  fathers'  hearth! 

She  now  began  to  put  by  a  little  hoard  of  pennies,  for  she 
meant  to  buy  flax  to  spin  the  finest  of  linen  for  her  body,  and 
purple  for  sleeves  for  her  arms,  and  scarlet  leather  for  shoes 
for  her  feet,  and  gold  for  a  fillet  for  her  head ;  and  so,  attired 
at  last  as  became  her  birth,  one  day  to  attend  a  tourney  where 
perhaps  some  knight  would  fight  his  battle  in  her  name.  And 
she  had  no  other  thought  in  this  than  glory  to  her  dead  race. 
But  her  precious  store  mounted  slowly;  and  she  had  laid  by 
nothing  but  the  money  for  the  fine  linen  for  her  robe,  when 
a  thing  happened  that  shattered  her  last  foothold  among  men. 

For  suddenly  all  the  countryside  was  alive  with  a  strange 
rumor.  Some  one  had  seen  a  hart  upon  the  hills,  a  hart  of 
twelve  points,  fit  for  royal  hunting.  Kings  will  hunt  no  lesser 
game  than  this.  But  this  of  all  harts  was  surely  born  to  be 
hunted  only  by  a  maiden  queen,  for,  said  the  rumor,  it  was 
as  white  as  snow.  Such  a  hart  had  never  before  been  heard 
of,  and  at  first  the  tale  of  it  was  not  believed.  But  the  tale 
was  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  until  at  last  all  men  swore 
to  it  and  all  winds  carried  it;  and  amongst  others  some  wind 
of  the  Downs  bore  it  across  the  land  from  Arun  to  Adur,  and 
so  it  reached  the  ears  of  Queen  Maudlin  of  Bramber.  Then 
she,  a  creature  of  quick  whims,  who  was  sated  with  the  easy 
conquests  of  her  beauty,  yet  eager  always  for  triumphs  to  cap 
triumphs,  devised  a  journey  from  Adur  to  Arun,  and  a  great 
summer  season  of  revelry  to  end  in  an  autumn  chase.  "And," 
said  she,  "we  will  have  joustings  and  dancings  in  beauty's 
honor,  but  she  whose  knight  at  the  end  of  all  brings  her  the 


200    MARTIN  PIPPIN  /N  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

antlers  of  the  snow-white  hart  shall  be  known  for  ever  in 
Sussex  as  the  queen  of  beauty;  since,  once  I  have  hunted  it, 
the  hart  will  be  hart-royal."  For  this,  as  perhaps  you  know, 
dear  maidens,  is  the  degree  of  any  hart  that  has  been  chased 
by  royalty. 

However,  before  the  festival  was  undertaken,  the  Queen 
of  Bramber  must  needs  know  if  the  Arun  could  show  any 
habitation  worthy  of  her;  and  her  messengers  went  and  came 
with  a  tale  of  a  noble  castle  fallen  into  ruins,  but  with  its 
four-square  walls  intact,  and  a  sward  within  so  smooth  and 
fair  that  it  seemed  only  to  await  the  coming  of  archers  and 
dancers.  So  the  Queen  called  a  legion  of  workmen  and  bade 
them  go  there  and  build  a  dwelling  in  one  part  of  the  green 
court  for  her  to  stay  in  with  her  company.  "And  see  it  be 
done  by  midsummer,"  said  she.  "Castles,  madam,"  said  the 
head  workman,  "are  not  built  in  a  month,  or  even  in  two." 
"Then  for  a  frolic  we'll  be  commoners,"  said  the  Queen, 
"and  you  shall  build  on  the  sward  not  a  castle,  but  a  farm." 
So  the  workmen  hurried  away,  and  set  to  work;  and  by  June 
they  had  raised  within  the  castle  walls  the  most  beautiful 
farmhouse  in  Sussex;  and  over  the  door  made  a  room  fit  for 
a  queen. 

But  alas  for  Proud  Rosalind! 

When  the  men  first  came  she  confronted  them  angrily  and 
commanded  them  to  depart  from  her  fathers'  halls.  And  the 
head  workman  looked  at  the  ruin  and  her  rags  and  said,  "What 
halls,  girl?  and  where  are  these  fathers?  and  who  are  you?" — 
and  bade  his  men  get  about  the  Queen's  work.  And  Rosalind 
was  helpless.  The  men  from  the  Adur  asked  the  people  of 
the  Arun  about  her,  and  what  rights  she  had  to  be  where  she 
was.  And  they,  being  unfriendly  to  her,  said,  "None.  She  is 
a  beggar  with  a  bee  in  her  bonnet,  and  thinks  she  was  once  a 
queen  because  her  housing  was  once  a  castle.  She  has  been 
suffered  to  stay  as  long  as  it  was  unwanted;  but  since  your 
Queen  wants  it,  now  let  her  go."  And  they  came  in  a  body 
to  drive  her  forth.  But  they  got  there  too  late.  The  Proud 
Rosalind  had  abandoned  her  conquered  stronghold,  and  where 
she  lived  from  this  time  nobody  knew.  She  was  seen  still  on 
the  roads  and  hills  now  and  again,  and  once  as  she  passed 
through  Bury  on  washing-day  the  women  by  the  river  called 
to  her,  "Where  do  you  live  now,  Proud  Rosalind,  instead  of 
in  a  castle?"     And   Rosalind  glanced   down   at  the  kneeling 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    201 

women  and  said  in  her  clear  voice,  "I  live  in  a  castle  nobler 
than  Bramber's,  or  even  than  Amberley's;  I  live  in  the  might- 
iest castle  in  Sussex,  and  Queen  Maudlin  herself  could  not 
build  such  another  to  live  in." 

"Then  you'll  doubtless  be  making  her  a  great  entertain- 
ment there.  Proud  Rosalind,"  scoffed  the  washers. 

"I  entertain  none  but  the  kings  of  the  earth  there,"  said 
Rosalind.     And  she  made  to  walk  on. 

"Why  then,"  mocked  they,  "you'd  best  seek  one  out  to 
hunt  the  white  hart  in  your  name  this  autumn,  and  crown  you 
queen  over  young  Maudlin,  Proud  Rosalind." 

And  Rosalind  stopped  and  looked  at  them,  longing  to  say, 
"The  white  hart?  What  do  you  mean ?"  Yet  for  all  her  long- 
ing to  know,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  ask  anything  of 
them.  But  as  though  her  thoughts  had  taken  voice  of  them- 
selves, she  heard  the  sharp  questions  uttered  aloud,  "What  white 
hart,  chatterers?  Of  what  hunt  are  you  talking?"  And  there 
in  mid-stream  stood  Harding  in  his  boat,  keeping  it  steady  with 
the  great  pole  of  the  oar. 

"Why,  Red  Boatman,"  said  they,  "did  you  not  know  that 
the  Queen  of  Bramber  was  coming  to  make  merry  at  Am- 
berley?" 

"Ay,"  said  Harding. 

"And  that  our  proud  lady  Rosalind,  having,  it  seems,  found 
a  grander  castle  to  live  in,  has  given  hers  up  to  young 
Maudlin?" 

Harding  glanced  to  and  from  the  scornful  tawny  girl  and 
said,  "Well?" 

"Well,  Red  Boatman!  On  Midsummer  Eve  the  Queen 
comes  with  her  court,  and  on  Midsummer  Day  there  will  be 
a  great  tourney  to  open  the  revels  that  will  last,  so  they  say, 
all  through  summer.  But  the  end  of  it  all  is  to  be  a  great 
chase,  for  a  white  hart  of  twelve  points  has  been  seen  on  the 
hills,  and  the  Queen  will  hunt  it  in  autumn  till  some  lucky 
lord  kneels  at  her  feet  with  its  antlers;  and  him,  they  say, 
she'll  marry." 

Then  Harding  once  more  looked  at  Rosalind  over  the 
water,  and  she  flung  back  a  look  at  him,  and  each  was  sur- 
prised to  see  dismay  on  the  other's  brow.  And  Hatding 
thought,  "Is  she  angry  because  she  is  not  the  Queen  of  the 
chase?"  And  Rosalind,  "Would  he  be  the  lord  who  kneels 
to  Queen  Maudlin?"     But  neither  knew  that  the  trouble  in 


202     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

each  was  really  because  their  precious  secret  was  now  public, 
and  the  white  hart  endangered.  And  Rosalind's  thought  was, 
"It  shall  be  no  Queen's  quarry!"  And  Harding's,  "It  shall 
be  no  man's  but  mine!"  Then  Harding  plied  his  way  to  the 
ferry,  and  Rosalind  went  hers  to  none  knew  where;  though 
some  had  tried  vainly  to  track  her. 

In  due  course  June  passed  its  middle,  and  the  Queen  rode 
under  the  Downs  from  Bramber  to  Amberley.  And  early  on 
Midsummer  Eve,  while  her  servants  made  busy  about  the  com- 
ing festival,  Queen  Maudlin  went  over  the  fields  to  the  water- 
side and  lay  in  the  grass  looking  to  Bury,  and  teased  some 
seven  of  her  court,  each  of  whom  had  sworn  to  bring  her  the 
Crown  of  Beauty  at  his  sword's  point  on  the  morrow.  Her 
four  maidens  were  with  her,  all  maids  of  great  loveliness. 
There  was  Linoret  who  was  like  morning  dew  on  grass  in 
spring,  and  Clarimond  queenly  as  day  ajt  its  noon,  and  Damarel 
like  a  rose  grown  languorous  of  its  own  grace,  and  Amelys, 
mysterious  as  the  spirit  of  dusk  with  dreams  in  its  hair.  But 
Maudlin  was  the  pale  gold  wonder  of  the  dawn,  a  creature 
of  ethereal  light,  a  vision  of  melting  stars  and  wakening  flowers. 
And  she  delighted  in  making  seem  cheap  the  palpable  pretti- 
ness  of  this,  or  too  robust  the  fuller  beauty  of  that,  or  dim 
and  dull  the  elusive  charm  of  such-an-one.  She  would  have 
scorned  to  set  her  beauty  to  compete  with  those  who  were  not 
beautiful,  even  as  a  proved  knight  would  scorn  to  joust  with 
an  unskilled  boor.  So  now  amongst  her  beautiful  attendants, 
knowing  that  in  their  midst  her  greater  beauty  shone  forth  a 
diamond  among  crystals,  she  laughed  at  her  seven  lovers;  and 
her  four  friends  laughed  with  her. 

"You  do  well.  Queen  Maudlin,  to  make  merry,"  said  one 
of  the  knights,  "for  I  know  none  that  gains  so  much  service 
for  so  little  portion.    What  will  you  give  to-morrow's  victor?" 

"What  will  to-morrow's  victor  think  his  due?"  said  she. 

The  seven  said  in  a  breath,  "A  kiss!"  and  the  five  laughed 
louder  than  ever. 

Then  Maudlin  said,  "For  so  great  an  honor  as  victory,  I 
should  feel  ashamed  to  bestow  a  thing  of  such  little  worth." 

"Do  you  call  that  thing  a  little  worth,"  said  one,  "which 
to  us  were  more  than  a  star  plucked  out  of  heaven?" 

"The  thing,  it  is  true,"  said  Maudlin,  "has  two  values. 
Those  who  are  over-eager  make  it  a  thing  of  naught,  those 
from  whom  it  is  hard-won  render  it  priceless.     But,  sirs,  you 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    203 

are  all  too  eager,  I  could  scatter  you  baubles  by  the  hour  and 
leave  you  still  desiring.  But  if  ever  I  wooed  reluctance  to 
receive  at  last  my  solitary  favor,  I  should  know  I  was  be- 
stowing a  jewel." 

"When  did  Maudlin  ever  meet  reluctance?"  sighed  one,  the 
youngest. 

A  long  shadow  fell  upon  her  where  she  lay  in  the  grass,  and 
she  looked  up  to  see  the  great  form  of  Harding  passing  at  a 
little  distance. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  she. 

"It  must  be  he  they  call  the  Red  Smith,"  said  Damarel 
idly. 

"He  looks  a  rough,  silent  creature,"  remarked  Amelys.  And 
Clarimond  added  in  loud  and  insolent  tones,  "He  knows  little 
enough  of  kissings,  I  would  wager  this  clasp." 

"It's  one  I've  a  fancy  for,"  said  young  Queen  Maudlin. 
"Red  Smith!"  called  she. 

Harding  turned  at  the  sweet  sound  of  her  voice,  and  came 
and  stood  beside  her  among  the  group  of  girls  and  knights. 

"Have  you  come  from  my  castle?"  said  she,  smiling  up  at 
him  with  her  dawn-blue  eyes. 

"Ay,"  he  answered. 

"What  drew  you  there,  big  man?     My  serving-wench?" 

The  Red  Smith  stared  down  at  her  light  alluring  loveliness. 
"Serving-wenches  do  not  draw  me." 

"What  metal  then?  Gold?"  Maudlin  tossed  him  a  yellow 
disc  from  her  purse.     He  let  it  fall  and  lie. 

"No,  nor  gold."  His  eyes  traveled  over  her  gleaming  locks. 
"The  things  you  name  are  too  cheap,"  said  he. 

Maudlin  smiled  a  little  and  raised  herself,  till  she  stood, 
fair  and  slender,  as  high  as  his  shoulder. 

"What  thing  draws  you.  Red  Smith?" 

"Steel."  And  he  showed  her  a  fine  sword-blade,  lacking  its 
hilt.     "I  was  sent  for  to  mend  this  against  the  morrow." 

"I  know  that  blade,"  said  Maudlin,  "it  was  snapped  in  my 
cause.     Have  you  the  hilt  too?" 

"In  my  pouch,"  said  Harding,  his  hand  upon  it. 

Hers  touched  his  fingers  delicately.     "I  will  see  it." 

He  brushed  her  hand  aside  and  unbuttoned  his  pouch ;  but 
as  he  drew  out  the  hilt  of  the  broken  sword,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  that  within  which  held  her  startled  gaze. 

"What  jewels  are  those?"  she  asked  quickly. 


204    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Old  relics,"  Harding  said  with  sudden  gruffness. 

"Show  them  to  me!" 

Reluctantly  he  obeyed,  and  brought  forth  a  ring,  a  circlet, 
and  a  girdle  of  surpassing  workmanship,  wrought  in  gold 
thick-crusted  with  emeralds,  A  cry  of  wonder  went  up  from 
all  the  maidens. 

"There's  something  else,"  said  Maudlin;  and  without  wait- 
ing thrust  her  hand  into  the  bottom  of  the  pouch  and  drew  out 
a  mesh  of  silver.  It  was  so  fine  that  it  could  be  held  and 
hidden  in  her  two  hands;  yet  when  it  fell  apart  it  was  a 
garment,  as  supple  as  rich  silk.  The  four  maids  touched  it 
softly  and  looked  their  longings. 

"Are  these  your  handicraft?"  said  Maudlin. 

"Mine?"  Harding  uttered  a  short  laugh.  "Not  I  or  any 
man  can  make  such  things." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Maudlin.  "Wayland's  self  might 
acknowledge  them.     Smith,   I  will  buy  them  of  you." 

"You  cannot  give  me  my  price." 

"Gold  I  know  does  not  tempt  you."  She  smiled  and  came 
close  beside  him. 

"Then  do  not  offer  it." 

"Shall  it  be  steel?" 

Harding's  eyes  swept  her  flower-like  beauty.  "Not  from 
Queen  Maudlin." 

"True.      My   bid   is   costlier." 

"Name  it." 

"A  kiss  from  my  mouth." 

At  the  sound  of  his  laughter  the  rose  flowed  into  her  cheek. 

"What,  a  bauble  for  my  jewel,  too-eager  lady?"  he  said 
harshly.  "Do  the  women  of  this  land  hold  themselves  so 
light?  In  mine  men  carve  their  kisses  with  the  sword.  Hark 
ye,  young  Queen!  set  a  better  value  on  that  red  mouth  if 
you'd  continue  to  have  it  valued." 

"I  could  have  you  whipped  for  this,"  said  Maudlin. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  Harding  answered,  and  stepped  down 
the  river-bank  into  his  waiting  boat. 

"I  keep  my  clasp,"  said  Clarimond. 

Seven  men  sprang  hotly  to  their  feet.  "What's  your  will, 
Queen?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Maudlin  slowly,  as  she  watched  him  row 
over  the  water.  "Let  the  smith  go.  This  test  was  between 
him  and  me  and  no  man's  business  else.     Well,   he  is  of  a 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    205 

temper  to  come  through  fire  unmelted."  She  flashed  a  smile 
upon  the  seven  that  made  them  tremble.  "But  he  is  a  man- 
nerless churl,  we  will  not  think  of  him.  Which  among  you 
would  spurn  my  kiss?"  She  offered  her  mouth  in  turn,  and 
seven  flames  passed  over  its  scarlet.  Maudlin  laughed  a  little 
and  beckoned  her  w^atching  maids.  "Well!"  she  said,  taking 
the  path  to  the  castle,  "he  that  had  had  strength  to  refuse 
me  might  have  worn  my  favor  to-morrow  and  for  ever." 

And  meanwhile  by  the  further  river-bank  came  Rosalind, 
with  mushrooms  in  her  skirt.  And  as  she  walked  by  the 
water  in  the  evening  she  looked  across  to  her  lost  castle- 
walls,  and  touched  the  pennies  in  her  pouch  and  dreamed, 
while  the  sun  dressed  the  running  flood  in  his  royalest  colors. 

"Linen  and  purple  and  scarlet  and  gold,"  mused  she;  "and 
so  I  might  sit  there  to-morrow  among  the  rest.  But  linen  and 
purple!"  she  said  in  scorn,  "what  should  they  profit  my  fathers' 
house?     It  is  no  silken  daughter  we  lack,  but  a  son  of  steel." 

And  as  she  pondered  a  shadow  crossed  her,  and  out  of  his 
boat  stepped  Harding,  new  from  his  encounter  with  the  Queen. 
He  did  not  glance  at  her  nor  she  at  him ;  but  the  gleam  of  the 
broken  weapon  he  carried  cut  for  a  single  instant  across  her 
sight,  and  her  hands  hungered  for  it. 

"A  sword!"  thought  she.  "Ay,  but  an  arm  to  wield  the 
sword.  Nay,  if  I  had  the  sword  it  may  be  I  could  find  an  arm 
to  wield  it."  She  dropped  her  chin  on  her  breast,  and  brooded 
on  the  vanishing  shape  of  the  Red  Smith.  "If  I  had  been  my 
fathers'  son — oh!"  cried  she,  shaken  with  new  dreams,  "what 
would  I  not  give  to  the  man  who  would  strike  a  blow  for 
our  house?" 

Then  she  recalled  what  day  it  was.  A  year  of  miracles 
and  changes  had  sped  over  her  life;  if  she  desired  new  miracles, 
this  was  the  night  to  ask  them. 

So  close  on  midnight  Proud  Rosalind  once  more  crept  up 
to  Rewell  Wood ;  and  on  its  beechen  skirts  the  white  hart 
came  to  her.  It  came  now  as  to  a  friend,  not  to  a  stranger. 
And  she  threw  her  arm  over  its  neck,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether. As  they  walked  it  lowered  its  noble  antlers  so  cun- 
ningly that  not  a  twig  snapped  from  the  boughs ;  and  its  antlers 
were  as  beautiful  as  the  boughs  with  their  branches  and  twigs, 
and  to  each  crown  it  had  added  not  one,  but  two  more  crockets, 
so  that  now  its  points  were  sixteen.  Safe  under  its  guard  the 
maiden  ventured   into   the  mysteries  of   the   hour,   and   when 


2o6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

they  came  to  the  mere  the  hart  lay  down  and  she  knelt  beside 
it  with  her  brow  on  its  soft  panting  neck,  and  thought  awhile 
how  she  would  shape  her  wish.  And  feeling  the  strength  of 
its  sinews  she  said  aloud,  "Oh,  champion  among  stags!  were 
there  a  champion  among  men  to  match  you,  I  think  even  I 
could  love  him.  Yet  love  is  not  my  prayer.  I  do  not  pray 
for  myself."  And  then  she  stood  upright  and  stretched  her 
hands  towards  the  water  and  said  again,  less  in  supplication  than 
command : 

"Spirit,  you  hear — I  do  not  pray  for  myself.  Of  old  it 
may  be  maidens  often  came  in  sport  or  fear,  to  make  a  mid- 
summer pastime  of  their  love-dreams.  Oh,  Spirit!  of  love  I 
ask  nothing  for  myself.  But  if  you  will  send  me  a  man  to 
strike  one  blow  in  my  name  that  is  my  fathers'  name,  he  may 
have  of  me  what  he  will!" 

Never  so  proudly  yet  had  the  Proud  Rosalind  held  herself 
as  when  she  lifted  her  radiant  face  to  the  moon  and  sent  her 
low  clear  call  thrice  over  the  mystic  waters.  Gloriously  she 
stood  with  arms  extended,  as  though  she  would  give  welcome 
to  any  hero  stepping  through  the  night  to  consummate  her 
wish.  But  none  came.  Only  the  subdued  rustling  that  had 
stirred  the  woods  a  year  ago  whispered  out  of  the  dark  and 
died  to  silence. 

The  arms  of  the  Proud  Rosalind  dropped  to  her  sides. 

"Is  the  time  not  yet?"  said  she,  "and  will  it  never  be?  Why, 
then,  let  me  belong  for  ever  to  the  champion  that  strikes  for 
me  to-morrow  in  the  lists.  A  sorry  champion,"  said  she  with 
a  wan  smile,  "j^et  I  will  hold  me  bound  to  him  according  to 
my  vow.     But  first  I  must  win  him  a  sword." 

Then  she  kissed  the  white  hart  between  the  eyes  and  said, 
"Go  where  you  will.  I  shall  be  gone  till  daylight."  And 
it  rose  up  to  run  the  moonlit  hills,  and  she  went  down 
through  the  trees,  and  left  the  Wishing-Pool  to  its  unruffled 
peace. 

Straight  down  towards  sleeping  Bury  Rosalind  went,  full 
of  her  purpose;  and  after  an  hour  passed  through  the  silent 
village. 

Her  errand  was  not  wholly  easy  to  her,  but  she  thought, 
"I  do  not  go  to  ask  favors,  but  plain  dealings;  and  it  must 
be  done  secretly  or  not  at  all."  As  she  came  near  the  ferry 
a  red  glow  broke  on  her  vision. 

"Does  the  water  burn?"  she  said,  and  quickened  her  steps. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD     207 

To  her  surprise  she  saw  that  Harding's  forge  was  busy;  the 
light  she  had  seen  sprang  from  it.  She  had  expected  to  find 
it  locked  and  silent,  but  now  the  little  space  it  held  in  the 
night  was  lit  with  fire  and  resounded  with  the  stroke  of  the 
Red  Smith's  hammer.  Proud  Rosalind  stood  fast  as  though 
he  were  fashioning  a  spell  to  chain  her  eyes.  And  so  he  was, 
for  he  hammered  on  a  sword. 

He  did  not  turn  his  head  at  her  approach;  but  when  at 
last  she  stood  beside  his  door,  and  did  not  move  away,  he  spoke 
to  her. 

"You  walk  late,"  said  he. 

"May  not  people  walk  late,"  said  she,  "as  well  as  work 
late?" 

Without  answering  he  set  himself  to  his  task  again  and 
heeded  her  no  more.     "Smith!"  she  cried  imperiously. 

"What  then?" 

"I  came  to  speak  with  you." 

"Even  so?"  She  barely  heard  the  words  for  the  din  of  his 
great  hammer. 

"You  are  unmannerly,  Smith." 

"Speak  then,"  said  he,  dropping  his  tools,  "and  never  for- 
get, maid,  that  it  is  not  I  invited  this  encounter." 

At  that  she  cried  out  hotly,  "Does  not  your  shop  invite 
trade?" 

"Ay;  but  what's  that  to  you?" 

"My  only  purpose  in  talking  with  you,"  she  said  in  a  flame 
of  wrath.  "I  require  what  you  have,  but  I  would  rather  buy 
it  of  any  man  than  you." 

"What  do  you  require?" 

"That!"     She  pointed  to  the  sword. 

"I  cannot  sell  it.  It  is  a  young  knight's  blade  I  am  mend- 
ing against  the  jousting." 

"Have  you  no  other?" 

"You  cannot  give  me  my  price,"  said  the  Red  Smith. 

She  took  from  her  girdle  the  little  purse  containing  all  her 
store.  "Do  you  think  I  am  here  to  bargain?  There's  more 
than  your  price." 

"However  much  it  be,"  said  Harding,  "it  is  too  little." 

"Then  say  no  more  that  I  cannot  buy  of  you,  but  rather 
that  you  will  not  sell  to  me." 

"And  yet  tliat  is  as  the  Proud  Rosalind  shall  please." 

She   flushed   deeply,    and    as   though    in   shame   of    seeming 


2o8    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

ashamed  said  firmly,  "No,  Smith,  it  is  not  in  my  hands.     For 
I  have  offered  you  every  penny  I  possess." 

"I  do  not  ask  for  pence."  Harding  left  his  anvil  and  stepped 
outside  and  stood  close,  gazing  hard  upon  her  face.  "You 
have  a  thing  I  will  take  in  exchange  for  my  svi^ord,  a  very 
simple  thing.  Women  part  w^ith  it  most  lightly,  I  have  learned. 
The  loveliest  hold  it  cheap  at  the  price  of  a  golden  gawd.  How 
easily  then  will  you  barter  it  for  an  inch  or  so  of  steel !" 

"What  need  of  so  many  words?"  she  said  with  a  scornful 
lip,  that  quivered  in  her  own  despite  at  his  nearness.  "Name 
the  thing  you  want." 

"A  kiss  from  your  mouth,  Proud  Rosalind." 

It  was  as  though  the  request  had  turned  her  Into  ice.  When 
she  could  speak  she  said,  "Smith,  for  your  inch  of  steel  you 
have  asked  what  I  would  not  part  with  to  ransom  my  soul." 

She  turned  and  left  him  and  Harding  went  back  to  his 
work  and  laughed  softly  in  his  beard.  "Dream  on,  my  gold 
queen  up  yonder,"  said  he,  and  blew  on  his  waning  fires.  "You 
are  not  the  metal  I  work  in,"  said  he,  and  the  river  rang  again 
to  his  hammer  on  the  steel. 

But  Rosalind  went  rapidly  down  to  the  waterside  saying 
in  her  heart,  "Now  I  will  see  whether  I  cannot  get  me  a  lord- 
lier weapon  of  a  better  craftsman  than  you,  and  at  my  own 
price.  Red  Smith."  And  when  she  had  come  to  the  ferry  she 
laid  her  full  purse  on  the  bank  and  cried  softly  into  the  night: 

"Wayland  Smith,  give  me  a  sword!" 

And  then  she  went  away  for  awhile,  and  paced  the  fields 
till  the  first  light  glimmered  on  the  east;  and  not  daring  to 
wait  longer  for  fear  of  encountering  early  risers,  she  turned 
back  to  the  ferry.  And  there,  shining  in  the  dawn,  she  found 
such  a  blade  as  made  the  father  in  her  soul  exult.  In  all  its 
glorious  fashioning  and  splendid  temper  the  hand  of  the  god 
was  manifest.  And  in  the  grass  beside  it  lay  her  purse,  of 
its  full  store  lightened  by  one  penny-piece. 

Now  to  this  tale  of  legends  revived  and  then  forgotten, 
gossips'  tales  of  Wishing-Pools  and  Snow-white  Harts  and  a 
God  who  worked  in  the  dark,  we  must  begin  to  add  the  legend 
of  the  Rusty  Knight.  It  lasted  little  longer  than  the  three 
months  of  that  strange  summer  of  sports  within  the  castle-walls 
of  Amberley.  It  was  at  the  jousting  on  Midsummer  Day  that 
he  first  was  seen.  The  lists  were  open  and  the  roll  of  knights 
had  answered  to  their  names,  and  cried  in  all  men's  ears  their 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    209 

ladies'  praises;  and  nine  in  ten  cried  Maudlin.  And  as  the  last 
knight  spoke,  there  suddenly  stood  in  the  great  gateway  an 
unknown  man  with  his  vizard  closed,  and  his  coming  was 
greeted  with  a  roar  of  laughter.  For  he  was  clothed  from 
head  to  foot  in  antique  arms,  battered  and  rusted  like  old 
pots  and  pans  that  ha,ve  seen  a  twelvemonths'  weather  in  a 
ditch.  Out  of  the  merriment  occasioned  by  his  appearance, 
certain  of  the  spectators  began  to  cry,  "A  champion!  a  cham- 
pion!" And  others  nudged  with  their  elbows,  chuckling,  "It  is 
the  Queen's  jester." 

But  the  newcomer  stood  his  ground  unflinchingly,  and  when 
he  could  be  heard  cried  fiercely,  "They  who  call  me  jester  shall 
find  they  jest  before  their  time.  I  claim  by  my  kingly  birth 
to  take  part  in  this  day's  fray ;  and  men  shall  meet  me  to  their 
rue! 

"By  what  name  shall  we  know  you?"  he  was  asked. 

"You  shall  call  me  the  Knight  of  the  Royal  Heart,"  he 
said. 

"And  whose  cause  do  you  serve?" 

"Hers  whose  beauty  outshines  the  five-fold  beauty  in  the 
Queen's  Gallerj^,"  said  he,  "hers  who  was  mistress  here  and 
wrongly  ousted — the  most  peerless  lady  of  Sussex,  Proud  Rosa- 
lind." 

With  that  the  stranger  drew  forth  and  flourished  a  blade 
of  so  surpassing  a  kind  that  the  knights,  in  whom  scorn  had 
vanquished  mirth,  found  envy  vanquishing  scorn.  As  for  the 
ladies,  they  had  ceased  to  smile  at  the  mention  of  Rosalind, 
whom  none  had  seen,  though  all  had  heard  of  the  girl  who 
had  been  turned  from  her  ruin  at  Maudlin's  whim ;  and  that 
this  ragged  lady  should  be  vaunted  over  their  heads  was  an 
insult  only  equaled  by  the  presence  among  their  shining  cham- 
pions of  the  Rusty  Knight.  For  by  this  name  only  was  he 
spoken  thereafter. 

Now  you  may  think  that  the  imperious  stranger  who  warned 
his  opponents  against  laughing  before  their  time,  might  well 
have  been  warned  against  crowing  before  his.  And  alas!  it 
transpired  that  he  crowed  not  as  the  cock  crows,  who  knows 
the  sun  will  rise;  for  at  the  first  clash  he  fell,  almost  unno- 
ticed. And  when  the  combatants  disengaged,  he  had  disap- 
peared. He  was  a  subject  for  much  mirth  that  evening; 
though  the  men  rankled  for  his  sword  and  the  women  for 
a  sight  of  his  lady. 


210    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

But  from  this  day  there  was  not  a  jousting  held  in  Maudlin's 
revels  at  which  the  Rusty  Knight  did  not  appear;  and  none 
from  which  he  bore  away  the  crown.  The  procedure  was 
always  the  same:  at  the  last  instant  he  appeared  in  his  igno- 
minious arms,  and  stung  the  mockers  to  silence  by  the  glory 
of  his  sword  and  his  undaunted  proclamation  of  his  lady.  So 
ardent  was  his  manner  that  it  was  difficult  not  to  believe  him 
a  conqueror  among  men  and  her  the  loveliest  of  women,  until 
the  fray  began;  when  he  was  instantly  overcome,  and  in  the 
confusion  managed  to  escape.  He  was  so  cunning  in  this  that 
though  traps  were  laid  to  catch  him  he  was  never  traced.  By 
degrees  he  became,  instead  of  a  joke,  a  thorn  in  the  flesh.  It 
was  the  women  now  who  itched  to  see  his  face,  and  the  men 
who  desired  to  find  out  the  Proud  Rosalind ;  for  by  his  re- 
peated assertion  her  beauty  came  to  be  believed  in,  and  if  the 
ladies  still  spoke  slightingly  of  her,  the  lords  in  their  thoughts 
did  not.  But  the  summer  drew  to  its  close  without  unraveling 
the  mystery.  The  Rusty  Knight  was  never  followed  nor  the 
Proud  Rosalind  found.  And  now  they  were  on  the  eve  of  a 
different  hunting. 

For  now  all  the  days  were  to  be  given  up  to  the  pursuit  of 
the  rumored  hart,  whom  none  had  yet  beheld;  and  Queen 
Maudlin  said,  "For  a  month  we  will  hunt  by  day  and  dance 
by  night,  and  if  by  that  time  no  man  can  boast  of  bringing 
the  hart  to  bay  and  no  woman  of  owning  his  antlers,  we 
will  acknowledge  ourselves  outwitted ;  and  so  go  back  to 
Adur.  And  it  may  prove  that  we  have  been  brought  to  Arun 
by  an  idle  tale,  to  hunt  a  myth;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  see 
to  your  bowstrings,  for  to-morrow  we  ride  forth." 

And  the  men  laid  by  their  swords  and  filled  their  quivers. 

And  in  the  midnight  Rosalind  came  once  more  from  her 
secret  lair  to  Bury,  and  laying  her  purse  by  the  ferry  called 
softly : 

"Wayland   Smith,  give  me  a  bow!" 

And  in  the  dawn,  before  people  were  astir,  she  found  a  now 
the  unlike  of  any  fashioned  by  mortal  craft,  and  a  quiverful 
of  true  arrows;  and  for  these  the  god  had  taken  his  penny  fee. 

On  a  lovely  day  of  autumn  the  chase  began.  And  the  red 
deer  and  the  red  fox  started  from  their  covers;  and  the  small 
rabbits  stopped  their  kitten-play  on  the  steep  warrens  of  the 
Downs,  and  fled  into  their  burrows;  and  birds  whirred  up 
in  screaming  coveys,  and  the  kestrel  hovered  high  and  motion- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    211 

less  on  the  watch.  There  was  game  in  plenty,  and  many  men 
were  tempted  and  forgot  the  prize  they  sought.  The  hunt 
separated,  some  going  this  way  and  some  that.  And  in  the 
evening  all  met  again  in  Amberley.  And  some  had  game  to 
show  and  some  had  none.    And  one  had  seen  the  hart. 

When  he  said  so  a  cry  went  up  from  the  company,  and  they 
pressed  round  to  hear  his  tale,  and  it  was  a  strange  one. 

"For,"  said  he,  "where  Great  Down  clothes  itself  with  the 
North  Wood  I  saw  a  flash  against  the  dark  of  the  trees,  and 
out  of  them  bounded  the  very  hart,  taller  than  any  hart  I  ever 
dreamed  of,  and,  as  the  tale  has  told,  as  pure  as  snow;  and  the 
crockets  spring  from  its  crowns  like  rays  from  a  summer  cloud. 
I  could  not  count  them,  but  its  points  are  more  than  twelve. 
When  it  saw  me  it  stood  motionless,  and  trembling  with  joy 
I  fitted  my  arrow  to  the  string ;  but  even  as  I  did  so  out  of  the 
trees  ran  another  creature,  as  strange  as  the  white  hart.  It 
was  none  other  than  the  Rusty  Knight ;  I  knew  him  by  his  bat- 
tered vizard,  which  was  closed.  But  for  the  rest  he  wore  now, 
not  rust,  but  rags — a  tattered  jerkin  in  place  of  battered  mail. 
Yet  in  his  hands  was  a  bow  which  among  weapons  could  only 
be  matched  by  his  sword.  He  took  his  stand  beside  the  snow- 
white  hart,  and  cried  in  that  angry  voice  we  have  all  heard, 
'These  crowns  grow  only  to  the  glory  of  the  Proud  Rosalind, 
the  most  peerless  daughter  of  Sussex,  and  no  woman  but  she 
shall  ever  boast  of  them !'  And  before  I  could  move  or  answer 
for  surprise,  he  had  set  his  arrow  to  his  bow,  and  drawn  the 
string  back  to  his  shoulder,  and  let  fly.  It  was  well  I  did  not 
start  aside,  or  it  might  have  hit  me;  for  I  never  saw  an  arrow 
fly  so  wild  of  its  mark.  But  the  whole  circumstance  amazed 
me  too  much  for  quick  action,  and  before  I  could  come  up  and 
chastise  this  unskillful  archer,  or  even  aim  at  the  prize  which 
stood  beside  him,  he  and  the  hart  had  plunged  through  the 
w^ood  again,  the  man  running  swiftfoot  as  the  beast;  and  when 
I  followed  I  could  not  find  them,  and  unhappily  my  dogs  were 
astray." 

The  strange  tale  stung  the  tempers  of  all  listeners,  both  men 
and  women. 

"Well,  now,"  laughed  Maudlin,  "it  has  at  least  been  seen 
that  the  hart  is  the  whitest  of  harts." 

"But  it  has  not  yet  been  seen,"  fumed  Clarimond,  "that  this 
Rosalind  is  the  most  beautiful  of  women." 

"Nor  have  we  seen,"  said  the  knight  who  told  the  tale,  "who 


212     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

it  is  that  insults  our  manhood  with  valiant  words  and  no  deeds 
to  prove  them.  Yet  with  such  a  sword  and  such  a  bow  a  man 
might  prove  anything." 

The  next  day  all  rode  forth  on  fire  with  eagerness.  And 
at  the  end  of  it  another  knight  brought  back  the  selfsame  tale. 
He  swore  that  in  the  tattered  archer  was  no  harm  at  all  but 
his  arrogance,  since  he  was  clearly  incapable  of  hitting  where 
he  aimed.  But  his  very  presence  and  his  swift  escape,  running 
beside  the  hart,  made  failure  seem  double;  for  the  derision  he 
excited  recoiled  on  the  deriders,  who  could  not  bring  this  con- 
temptible foe  to  book.  After  that  day  many  saw  him,  some- 
times at  a  great  distance,  sometimes  near  enough  to  be  lashed 
by  his  insolent  tongue.  He  always  kept  beside  the  coveted 
quarry,  as  though  to  guard  it,  and  ran  when  it  ran,  with  in- 
credible speed;  but  once  when  he  flagged  after  a  longer  chase 
than  usual,  he  had  been  seen  to  leap  on  its  back,  and  so  they 
escaped  together.  From  dawn  to  dark  through  that  bright 
month  of  autumn  the  man  and  the  hart  were  hunted  in  vain ; 
and  in  all  that  while  their  lair  was  never  discovered.  It  was 
now  taken  for  granted  that  where  one  would  be  the  other 
would  be ;  and  in  all  likelihood  Proud  Rosalind  also. 

At  last  the  final  day  of  the  month  and  the  chase  arrived,  and 
Maudlin  spoke  to  her  mortified  company.  Among  them  all 
she  was  the  only  one  who  laughed  now,  for  her  nature  was 
like  that  of  running  water,  reflecting  all  things,  retaining  none; 
she  could  never  retain  her  disappointments  longer  than  a  day, 
or  her  affections  either. 

"Sirs  and  dames,"  said  she,  "I  see  by  your  clouded  faces  it 
is  time  we  departed,  but  we  will  depart  as  we  came  in  the 
sun.  If  this  day  bring  no  more  fruit  than  its  fellows,  neither 
victory  to  a  lord  nor  sovereignty  to  his  lady,  we  will  to-morrow 
hold  the  mightiest  tourney  of  the  year,  and  he  who  wins  the 
crown  shall  give  it  to  his  love,  and  she  shall  be  called  for  ever 
the  fairest  of  Sussex;  but  for  that,  if  her  lord  desire  it,  she 
shall  wed  him — yes,  though  it  be  myself  she  shall!" 

And  at  this  the  hearts  of  nine  men  in  ten  leapt  in  their 
breasts  for  longing  of  her,  and  in  the  tenth  for  longing 
of  Linoret  or  Clarimond  or  Damarel  or  Amelys;  and  all 
went  to  the  chase  thinking  as  much  of  the  morrow  as  of  the 
day. 

It  was  the  day  when  the  forests  burned  their  brightest.  The 
earth  was  fuller  of  color  than  in  the  painted  spring;  the  hedge- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    213 

rows  were  hung  with  brilliant  berries  in  wreaths  and  clusters, 
luminous  briony  and  honeysuckle,  and  the  ebony  gloss  of  the 
privet  making  more  vivid  the  bright  red  of  the  hips  and  the 
dark  red  of  the  haws.  The  smooth  flat  meadows  and  smooth 
round  sides  of  the  Downs  were  not  greener  in  June;  nor  in 
that  crystal  air  did  the  river  ever  run  bluer  than  under  that 
blue  sky.  The  elms  were  getting  already  their  dusky  gold  and 
the  beeches  their  brighter  reds  and  golds  and  coppers;  where 
they  were  young  and  in  thin  leaf  the  sun-flood  watered  them  to 
transparent  pinks  and  lemons,  as  bright,  though  not  as  burn- 
ing, as  the  massed  colors  of  the  older  trees.  That  day  there 
was  magic  on  the  western  hills,  for  those  who  could  see  it,  and 
trees  that  were  not  trees. 

So  Rosalind  who,  like  all  the  world,  was  early  abroad,  though 
not  with  all  the  world,  saw  a  silver  cloud  pretending  to  be 
white  flowers  upon  a  hawthorn;  never  in  spring  sunlight  had 
the  bush  shone  whiter.  But  when  Maudlin  rode  by  later  she 
saw,  not  a  cloud  in  flower,  but  a  flowerless  tree,  dressed  with 
the  new-puffed  whiteness  of  wild  clematis,  its  silver-green  ten- 
drils shining  through  their  own  mist. 

Then  Rosalind  saw  a  sunset  pretending  to  be  a  spindle-tree, 
scattering  flecks  of  red  and  yellow  light  upon  the  ground,  till 
the  grass  threw  up  a  reflection  of  the  tree,  as  a  cloud  in  the 
east  will  reflect  another  in  the  west.  But  when  Maudlin  came 
riding  the  spots  of  light  upon  the  ground  were  little  pointed 
leaves,  and  the  sunset  a  little  tree  as  round  as  a  clipped  yew, 
mottled  like  an  artist's  palette  with  every  shade  from  primrose 
to  orange  and  from  rose  to  crimson. 

And  last,  in  a  green  glade  under  a  steep  hollow  overhung 
with  ash,  Rosalind  saw  a  fairy  pretending  to  be  a  silver  birch 
turned  golden.  For*  her  leaves  hung  like  the  shaking  water  of 
a  sunlit  fountain,  and  she  stood  alone  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  glade  as  though  on  tip-toe  for  a  dance;  and  all  the  green 
trees  that  had  retreated  from  her  dancing-floor  seemed  ready 
to  break  into  music,  so  that  Rosalind  held  her  breath  lest  she 
should  shatter  the  moment  and  the  magic,  and  stayed  spell- 
bound where  she  was.  But  an  hour  afterwards  Maudlin, 
riding  the  chalky  ledge  on  the  ash-grown  height,  looked  down 
on  that  same  sight  and  uttered  a  sharp  cry;  for  she  saw,  no 
fairy,  but  a  little  yellowing  birch,  and  under  it  the  snow- 
white  hart  with  the  Rusty  Knight  beside  him.  Then  all  the 
company  with  her  echoed   the  cry,   and   the   forest  was  filled 


214    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

with  the  round  sounds  of  horns  and  belling  hounds.  And 
while  in  great  excitement  men  sought  a  way  down  into  the 
steep  glen,  the  hart  and  his  ragged  guard  had  started  up,  and 
vanished  through  the  underworld  of  trees. 

The  hue  and  cry  was  taken  up.  Not  one  or  two,  but  fifty 
had  now  seen  the  quarry,  and  panted  for  the  glory  of  the 
prize.  And  so,  near  the  very  beginning  of  the  day,  the  chase 
began. 

The  scent  was  found  and  lost  and  found  again.  The  stag 
swam  the  river  twice,  once  at  South  Stoke,  and  once  at  Hough- 
ton Bridge,  and  the  man  swam  with  it;  and  then,  keeping 
over  the  fields  they  ran  up  Coombe  and  went  west  and  north, 
over  Bignor  Hill  and  Farm  Hill,  through  the  Kennels  and 
Tegleaze.  They  were  sighted  on  Lamb  Lea  and  lost  in 
Charlton.  They  were  seen  again  on  Heyshott  and  vanished 
in  Herringdean  Copse.  They  crossed  the  last  high-road  in 
Sussex  and  ran  over  Linch  Down  and  Treyford  nearly  into 
Hampshire;  and  there  the  quarry  turned  and  tried  to  double 
home  by  Winden  Wood  and  Cotworth  Down.  The  marvel 
was  that  the  Rusty  Knight  was  alwaj^s  with  it,  sometimes  be- 
side it,  often  on  its  back;  and  even  when  he  bestrode  it,  it 
flew  over  the  green  hills  like  a  white  sail  driven  by  a  wind 
at  sea,  or  a  cloud  flying  the  skies.  When  it  doubled  it  had 
shaken  off  the  greater  part  of  the  hunt.  But  through  Well- 
hanger  and  over  Levin  some  followed  it  still.  In  the  woods 
of  Malecomb  only  the  seven  knights  who  most  loved  Maudlin 
remained  staunch;  and  they  were  spurred  by  hope,  because 
when  they  now  sighted  it  it  seemed  as  though  the  hart  began 
to  tire,  and  its  rider  drooped.  Their  own  steeds  panted,  and 
their  dogs'  tongues  lolled;  but  over  the  dells  and  rises,  woods 
and  fields,  they  still  pressed  on,  exulting  that  they  of  all  the 
hunt  remained  to  bring  the  weary  gallant  thing  to  bay. 

Once  more  they  were  in  the  home  country,  and  the  day 
was  drawing  to  a  glorious  close.  In  the  great  woods  of  Rewell 
the  hart  tried  to  confuse  the  scent  and  conceal  itself  with  its 
spent  comrade,  but  it  was  too  late ;  for  it  too  was  nearly  spent. 
Yet  it  plunged  forward  to  the  ridge  of  Arundel  with  its  high 
fret  of  trees  like  harp-strings,  filled  with  the  music  of  the 
evening  sky.  And  here  again  among  the  dipping  valleys,  the 
quarry  sought  to  shake  off  the  pursuit ;  but  as  vainly  as  be- 
fore. In  that  exhausted  close  for  hunters  and  hunted,  the 
first  had  triumph  to  spur  the  last  of  their  strength,  and  the 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    215 

second  despair  to  eke  out  theirs.  At  Whiteways  the  hart 
struck  down  through  a  secret  dip,  into  the  loveliest  hidden 
valley  of  all  the  Downs;  and  descending  after  it  the  knights 
saw  suddenly  before  them  a  great  curve  of  the  steely  river, 
lying  under  the  sunset  like  a  scimitar  dyed  with  blood.  And 
in  a  last  desperate  effort  the  hart  swerved  round  a  narrow 
footway  by  the  river,  and  disappeared. 

The  knights  followed  shouting  with  their  baying  dogs,  and 
the  next  instant  were  struck  mute  with  astonishment.  For 
the  narrow  wooded  path  by  the  water  suddenly  swung  open 
into  a  towering  semi-circle  of  dazzling  cliffs,  uprising  like 
the  loftiest  castle  upon  earth:  such  castles  as  heaven  builds  of 
gigantic  clouds,  to  scatter  their  solid  piles  with  a  wind  again. 
But  only  the  hurricanes  of  the  first  day  or  the  last  could  bring 
this  mighty  pile  to  dissolution.  The  forefront  of  the  vast 
theater  was  a  perfect  sward,  lying  above  the  water  like  a  green 
half-moon;  beyond  and  around  it  small  hills  and  dells  rose 
and  fell  in  waves  until  they  reached  the  brink  of  the  great 
cliffs.  At  the  further  point  of  the  semi-circle  the  narrow  way 
by  the  river  began  again,  and  steep  woods  came  down  to  the 
water  cutting  off  the  north. 

And  somewhere  hidden  in  the  hemisphere  of  little  hills  the 
hart  was  hidden,  without  a  path  of  escape. 

The  men  sprang  from  their  horses,  and  followed  the  bark- 
ing dogs  across  the  sward.  At  the  end  of  it  they  turned  up 
a  neck  of  grass  that  coiled  about  a  hollow  like  the  rim  of  a 
cup.  It  led  to  a  little  plateau  ringed  with  bushes,  and  smell- 
ing sweet  of  thyme.  At  first  it  seemed  as  though  there  were 
no  other  ingress;  but  the  dogs  nosed  on  and  pointed  to  an 
opening  through  the  thick  growth  on  the  left,  and  disappeared 
with  hoarse  wild  barks  and  yelps;  and  their  masters  made  to 
follow. 

But  at  the  same  instant  they  heard  a  voice  come  from  the 
bushes,  a  voice  well  known  to  them ;  but  now  it  was  exhausted 
of  its  power,  though  not  of  its  anger. 

"This  quarry  and  this  place,"  it  cried,  "are  sacred  to  the 
Proud  Rosalind  and  in  her  name  I  warn  you,  trespassers,  that 
you  proceed  at  your  peril!" 

At  this  the  seven  knights  burst  into  laughter,  and  one  cried, 
"Why,  then,  it  seems  we  have  brought  the  lady  to  bay  with 
the  hart — a  double  quarry,  friends.  Come,  for  the  dogs  are 
full  of  music  now,  and  we  must  see  the  kill." 


2i6    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

As  they  moved  forward  an  arrow  sped  far  above  their 
heads. 

Then  a  second  man  cried,  "We  could  shoot  into  the  dark 
more  surely  than  this  clumsy  marksman  out  of  it.  Let  us 
shoot  among  the  trees  and  give  him  his  deserts.  And  after 
that  let  nothing  hold  us  from  the  dogs,  for  their  voices  turn 
the  blood  in  me  to  fire." 

So  each  man  plucked  an  arrow  from  his  quiver. 

And  as  he  fitted  it,  lo!  with  incredible  swiftness  seven  ar- 
rows shot  through  the  air,  and  one  by  one  each  arrow  split 
in  two  a  knight's  yew-bow.  The  men  looked  at  their  broken 
bows  amazed.  And  as  they  looked  at  each  other  the  dogs 
stopped   baying,  one  by  one. 

One  of  the  knights  said,  breathing  heavily,  "This  must 
be  seen  to.  The  man  who  could  shoot  like  this  has  been 
playing  with  us  since  midsummer.  Let  us  come  in  and 
call  him  to  account,  and  make  him  show  us  his  Proud 
Rosalind." 

They  made  a  single  movement  towards  the  opening;  at  the 
same  moment  there  was  a  great  movement  behind  it,  and 
they  came  face  to  face  with  the  hart-royal.  It  stood  at  bay, 
its  terrible  antlers  lowered ;  its  eyes  were  danger-lights,  as 
red  as  rubies.  And  the  seven  weaponless  men  stood  rooted 
there,  and  one  said,  "Where  are  the  dogs?" 

But  they  knew  the  dogs  were  dead. 

So  they  turned  and  went  out  of  the  place,  and  found  their 
horses  and  rode  away. 

And  when  they  had  gone  the  hart  too  turned  again,  and 
went  slowly  down  a  little  slipping  path  through  the  bushes 
and  came  to  the  very  inmost  chamber  of  its  castle,  a  round 
and  roofless  shrine,  walled  half  by  the  bird-haunted  cliffs  and 
half  by  woods.  Within  on  the  grass  lay  the  dead  hounds,  each 
pierced  with  an  arrow;  and  on  a  bowlder  near  them  sat  the 
Rusty  Knight,  with  drooping  head  and  body,  regarding  them 
through  the  vizard  he  was  too  weary  to  raise.  He  was  ex- 
hausted past  bearing  himself.  The  hart  lay  down  beside  him, 
as  exhausted  as  he. 

But  a  sound  in  the  forest  that  thickly  clothed  the  cliff  made 
both  look  up.  And  down  between  the  trees,  almost  from  the 
height  of  the  cliff,  climbed  Harding  the  Red  Hunter,  bow  in 
hand.  He  strode  across  the  little  space  that  divided  them 
still,  and  stood  over  the  Rusty  Knight  and  the  white  Hart- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    217 

Royal.  And  both  might  have  been  petrified,  for  neither 
stirred. 

After  a  little  Harding  began  to  speak.  "Are  you  satisfied, 
Rusty  Knight,"  said  he,  "with  what  you  have  done  in  Proud 
Rosalind's  honor?" 

The  Rusty  Knight  did  not  answer. 

"Did  ever  lady  have  a  sorrier  champion?"  Harding  laughed 
roughly.  "She  would  have  beggared  herself  to  get  you  a 
sword.  And  she  got  you  a  sword  the  like  of  which  no  knight 
ever  had  before.  And  how  have  you  used  it?  All  through  a 
summer  you  have  brought  laughter  upon  her.  She  would  have 
beggared  herself  again  to  get  you  a  bow  that  only  a  god  was 
worthy  to  draw.  And  how  have  you  drawn  it?  For  a  month 
you  have  drawn  it  to  men's  scorn  of  her  and  of  you.  You 
have  cried  her  praises  only  to  forfeit  them.  You  have  vaunted 
her  beauty  and  never  crowned  it.  And  what  have  you  got  for 
it?"  The  Rusty  Knight  was  as  dumb  as  the  dead.  Harding 
stepped  closer.  "Shall  I  tell  you,  Rusty  Knight,  what  you 
have  got  for  it?  Last  Midsummer  Eve  by  the  Wishing-Well 
the  Proud  Rosalind  forswore  love  if  heaven  would  send  her 
a  man  to  strike  a  blow  in  her  name  for  her  fathers'  sake.  She 
did  not  say  what  sort  of  man  or  what  sort  of  blow.  She  asked 
in  her  simplicity  only  that  a  blow  should  be  struck.  And  like 
a  woman  she  was  ready  to  find  it  enough,  and  in  gratitude  re- 
pay it  with  that  which  could  only  in  honor  be  exchanged  for 
what  honored  her.  Yet  I  mjself  heard  her  swear  to  hold  her- 
self bound  to  the  sorry  champion  who  should  strike  for  her  in 
the  tourney.  And  you  struck  and  fell.  Did  you  tell  her  you 
fell  when  you  came  to  her,  crownless?  And  how  did  she 
crown  you  for  your  fall,  Rusty  Knight?" 

The  Knight  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  quivering. 

"That  moves  you,"  said  Harding,  "but  I  will  move  you 
more.  The  Proud  Rosalind  is  not  your  woman.  She  is  mine. 
She  was  mine  from  the  moment  her  eyes  fell.  She  was  only  a 
child  then,  but  I  knew  she  was  mine  as  surely  as  I  knew  this 
hart  was  mine  and  no  other's,  when  first  I  saw  it  as  a  calf 
drink  at  its  pool.  But  I  was  patient  and  waited  till  he,  my 
calf,  should  become  a  king,  and  she,  my  heifer,  a  queen.  And 
I  am  her  man  because  I  am  of  king's  stock  in  my  own  land, 
and  she  of  king's  stock  in  hers.  And  I  am  her  man  because 
for  a  year  I  have  kept  her,  without  her  knowletlge,  with  the 
pence  I  earned  by  my  sweat,  that  were  earned  for  a  different 


2i8    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

purpose.  And  I  am  her  man  because  the  hart  you  have  de- 
fended so  ill,  and  hampered  for  a  month,  was  saved  to-day 
by  my  arrows,  not  yours.  It  was  my  arrows  slew  the  hounds 
from  the  top  of  the  cliff.  It  was  my  arrows  split  the  bows  of 
the  seven  knights.  And  it  is  my  arrow  now  that  will  kill  the 
White  Hart  that  in  all  men's  sight  I  may  give  her  the  antlers 
to-morrow,  and  hear  my  Proud  Rosalind  called  queen  among 
women." 

And  as  he  spoke  Harding  drew  back  suddenly,  and  fitted  a 
shaft  to  his  string  as  though  he  would  shoot  the  hart  where  it 
lay. 

But  the  Rusty  Knight  sprang  forward  and  caught  his  hands 
crying,  "Not  my  Hart!  you  shall  not  shoot  my  Hart!"  And 
he  tore  off  his  casque,  and  the  great  tawny  mantle  of  Rosa- 
lind's hair  fell  over  her  rags,  and  her  face  was  on  fire  and  her 
bosom  heaving;  and  she  sank  down  murmuring,  "I  beg  you 
to  spare  my  Hart." 

But  Harding,  uttering  a  great  laugh  of  pride  and  joy,  caught 
her  up  before  she  could  kneel,  saying,  "Not  even  to  me,  my 
Proud  Rosalind!"  And  without  even  kissing  her  lips  he  put 
her  from  him  and  knelt  before  her,  and  kissed  her  feet. 

("Will  you  be  so  good.  Mistress  Jane,"  said  Martin,  "as 
to  sew  on  my  button?" 

"I  will  not  knot  my  thread,  Master  Pippin,"  said  Jane, 
"till  you  have  snapped  yours." 

"It  is  snapped,"  said  Martin.     "The  story  is  done." 

JoscELYN :  It  is  too  much!  it  is  too  much!  You  do  it  on 
purpose ! 

Martin:  Oh,  Mistress  Joscelyn!  I  never  do  anything  on 
purpose.  And  therefore  I  am  always  doing  either  too  much 
or  too  little.  But  in  what  have  I  exceeded?  My  story?  I 
am  sorry  if  it  is  too  long. 

Joscelyn:     It  was  too  short — and  you  are  quibbling. 

Martin:  /.*' — But  never  mind.  What  more  can  I  say? 
It  is  a  fault,  I  know;  but  as  soon  as  my  lovers  understand 
each  other  I  can  see  no  further. 

Joscelyn:  There  are  a  thousand  things  more  you  can  say. 
Who  this  Harding  was,   for  one. 

Joyce:  And  what  he  meant  by  saying  his  pennies  had  kept 
her,  for  another. 

Jennifer:  And  for  what  other  purpose  he  had  intended 
them. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    219 

Jessica:  And  you  must  describe  all  that  happened  at  the 
last  tourney. 

Jane  :  And  what  about  the  ring  and  the  girdle  and  the  cir- 
clet and  the  silver  gown? 

"I  would  so  like  to  know,"  said  little  Joan,  "if  Harding 
and  Rosalind  lived  happily  ever  after.  Please  won't  you  tell 
us  how  it  all  ended?" 

"Will  women  never  see  what  lies  under  their  noses?" 
groaned  Martin.  "Will  they  always  stare  over  a  wall,  and  if 
they're  not  tall  enough  to  try  to  stare  through  it?  Will  they 
only  know  that  a  thing  has  come  to  its  end  when  they  see  it 
making  a  new  beginning?  Why,  after  the  first  kiss  all  tales 
start  afresh,  though  they  start  on  the  second,  which  is  as  dif- 
ferent from  the  first  as  a  garden  rose  from  a  wild  one.  Here 
have  I  galloped  you  to  a  conclusion,  and  now  you  would  set 
me  ambling  again." 

"Then  make  up  your  mind  to  it,"  said  Joscelyn,  "and  am- 
ble." 

"Dear  heaven!"  went  on  Martin,  "I  begin  to  believe  that 
when  a  woman  is  being  kissed  she  doesn't  even  notice  it  for  think- 
ing, How  sweet  it  will  be  when  he  kisses  me  next  Tuesday 
fortnight!" 

"Then  get  on  to  Tuesday  fortnight,"  scolded  Joscelyn,  "if 
that  be  the  end." 

"The  end  indeed!"  said  Martin.  "On  Tuesday  fortnight, 
at  the  very  instant,  the  slippery  creature  is  thinking.  How  de- 
licious it  was  when  he  kissed  me  two  weeks  ago  last  Satur- 
day! There's  no  end  with  a  woman,  either  backwards  or  for- 
wards!" 

"For  goodness'  sake,"  cried  Joscelyn,  "stop  grumbling  and 
get  on  with  it!" 

"There's  no  end  to  a  man's  grumbling  either,"  said  Mar- 
tin; "but  I'll  get  on  with  it.") 

The  tale  that  Harding  had  to  tell  Proud  Rosalind  was  a 
long  one,  but  I  will  make  as  short  of  it  as  I  can.  He  told 
her  how  in  his  own  country  he  was  sprung  of  the  race  of  Vo- 
lundr,  who  was  a  God  and  a  King  and  a  Smith  all  in  one ;  but 
he  had  been  ill-used  and  banished,  and  had  since  haunted  Eng- 
land where  men  knew  him  as  Wayland,  and  he  did  miracles. 
But  in  his  own  northern  land  his  strain  continued,  until  Hard- 
ing's father,  a  king  himself,  was  like  his  ancestor  defeated  and 
banished,  and  crossed  the  water  with  his  young  son  and  a  chest 


220    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

of  relics  of  Old  Wayland's  work — a  ring,  a  girdle,  a  crown, 
and  a  silver  robe;  a  sword  and  bow  which  Rosalind  knew 
already ;  and  other  things  as  well.  And  the  boy  grew  up  filled 
with  the  ancient  wrongs  of  his  ancestor,  and  he  went  about  the 
country  seeking  Wayland's  haunts;  and  wherever  he  found 
them  he  found  a  mossy  legend,  neglected  and  unproved,  of  how 
the  god  worked,  or  had  worked,  for  any  man's  pence,  and  put 
his  divine  craft  to  laborers'  service.  And  as  in  Rosalind  the 
dream  had  grown  of  building  up  her  fathers'  honor  again,  so 
Harding  had  from  boyhood  nursed  his  dream  of  establishing 
that  of  the  half-forgotten  god.  And  he,  who  had  inherited 
his  ancestor's  craft  in  metal,  coming  at  last  through  Sussex 
settled  at  Bury,  where  the  legend  lay  on  its  sick-bed ;  and  he 
set  up  his  shop  by  the  ferry  so  that  he  might  doctor  it.  And 
there  he  did  his  work  in  two  ways;  for  as  the  Red  Smith  he 
did  such  work  as  might  be  done  better  by  a  hundred  men,  but 
as  Wayland  he  did  what  could  only  have  been  done  better  by 
the  god.  And  the  toll  he  collected  for  that  work  he  saved, 
year-in-year-out,  till  he  should  have  enough  to  build  the  god 
a  shrine.  And,  leaving  this  visible  evidence  behind  him,  he 
meant  to  depart  to  his  own  land,  and  let  the  faith  in  Wa3dand 
wax  of  itself.  And  then  Harding  told  Rosalind  how  he  had 
first  seen  the  hart  when  it  was  a  calf  six  years  before  at  mid- 
summer, and  how  it  had  led  him  to  the  Wishing- Well ;  and  he 
had  marked  it  for  his  own.  And  how  in  the  same  year  he 
had  first  noticed  Rosalind,  a  girl  not  yet  sixteen,  and,  for  the 
fire  of  kings  in  her  that  all  her  poverty  could  not  extinguish, 
chosen  her  for  his  mate. 

"And  year  by  year,"  said  Harding,  "I  watched  to  see  whether 
the  direst  want  could  bring  you  to  humbleness,  and  saw  you 
only  grow  in  nobleness;  and  year  by  year  I  lay  in  wait  for 
my  four-footed  quarry  each  Midsummer  Eve  beside  the  Wish- 
ing-Pool,  and  saw  it  grow  in  kingliness.  And  last  year,  as 
you  know,  I  saw  you  come  to  the  Pool  beside  the  hart,  and 
heard  you  make  your  high  prayer  for  life  or  death.  And  if  I 
had  not  been  able  to  give  you  the  life,  I  would  have  given  you 
the  death  you  prayed  for.  But  I  went  before  you,  and  going 
by  the  ferry  put  my  old  god's  money  in  your  room  before 
you  could  be  there.  And  from  time  to  time  I  robbed  his  store 
to  keep  you.  But  when  in  spring  they  drove  you  from  the 
castle  I  did  not  know  where  to  find  you;  and  I  hunted  for 
your  lair  as  I   hunted   for  the  hart's,   and   never  knew   they 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    221 

were  the  same.  Then  this  year  came  the  wishing-time  again, 
and  lying  hidden  I  heard  you  cry  for  a  man  to  strike  for  you. 
And  I  was  tempted  then  to  reveal  myself  and  make  you  know 
to  what  man  you  were  committed.  But  I  decided  that  I 
would  wait  and  strike  for  you  in  the  tourney,  and  come  to 
you  for  the  first  time  with  a  crown.  And  so  I  went  back  to 
the  ferry  and  set  to  work;  and  to  my  amazement  you  followed 
me,  and  for  the  first  time  of  your  own  will  addressed  me.  I 
wondered  whether  you  had  come  to  be  humble  before  your 
time,  and  if  you  had  been  I  would  have  let  you  go  for  ever; 
but  when  you  spoke  with  scorn  as  to  a  servant  who  had  once 
forgotten  himself  so  far  as  to  play  the  man  to  you,  I  laughed 
in  my  heart  and  prized  your  scorn  more  dearly  than  your  fa- 
vor; and  said  to  myself.  To-morrow  she  shall  know  me  for  her 
man.  But  when  you  went  down  to  the  water  and  made  your 
demand  of  Wayland,  for  his  sake  and  yours  I  was  ready  to 
give  you  a  weapon  worthy  of  your  steel.  So  I  gave  you  the 
god's  own  sword  and  waited  to  see  what  use  you  would  make 
of  it.  And  you  made  as  ill  an  use  as  after  you  made  of  the 
god's  bow.  And  while  men  spoke  betwixt  wrath  and  mock- 
ery of  the  Rusty  Knight,  I  loved  more  dearly  that  champion 
who  was  doing  so  ill  so  bravely  for  a  championless  lady." 
Then  Harding  looked  her  steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  though  her 
face  was  all  on  fire  again  as  he  alone  had  power  to  make  it, 
she  did  not  flinch  from  his  gaze;  and  he  took  her  hand  and 
said,  "No  man  has  ever  struck  a  blow  for  you  yet.  Proud  Rosa- 
lind, but  the  Rusty  Knight  will  strike  for  you  to-morrow;  and 
as  to-day  there  was  no  marksman,  so  to-morrow  there  shall  be 
no  swordsman  who  can  match  him.  And  when  he  has  won  the 
crown  of  Sussex  for  you,  you  shall  redeem  your  pledge  of  the 
Wishing-Well  and  give  him  what  he  will.  Till  then,  be  free." 
And  he  dropped  her  hand  again  and  let  her  go. 

She  turned  and  went  quickly  into  the  bushes  and  soon  she 
came  out  bearing  the  miserable  arms  of  the  Rusty  Knight  and 
the  glorious  sword. 

"These  are  all  that  were  in  my  fathers'  castle  for  many 
years,"  she  said,  "and  I  took  them  when  I  went  away  and  the 
white  hart  brought  me  to  his  own  castle.  But  though  these 
are  big  for  me,  they  will  be  small  for  you." 

And  Harding  looked  at  them  and  laughed  his  short  laugh. 
"The  casque  alone  will  serve,"  he  said.  "By  that  and  the 
sword  men  shall  know  me.     I  have  my  own  arms  else;  and  I 


222    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

will  take  on  myself  the  shame  of  this  ludicrous  casque,  and  re- 
deem it  in  your  name.  And  you  shall  have  these  in  exchange." 
And  he  handed  her  his  pouch  and  bade  her  what  to  do  in  the 
morning,  and  went  away.  He  still  had  not  kissed  her  mouth, 
nor  had   she  offered   it. 

Now  there  is  very  little  left  to  tell.  On  the  morrow,  when 
the  roll  of  knights  had  been  called,  all  eyes  instinctively  turned 
to  the  great  gateway,  by  which  the  Rusty  Knight  had  always 
come  at  the  last  moment.  And  as  they  looked  they  saw  whom 
they  expected,  but  not  what  they  expected.  For  though  his 
head  was  hidden  in  the  rusty  casque,  and  though  he  held  the 
sword  which  all  men  coveted,  he  was  clad  from  neck  to  foot 
in  arms  and  mail  so  marvelously  chased  and  inwrought  with 
red  gold  that  his  whole  body  shone  ruddy  in  the  sunshaft. 
And  men  and  women,  dazzled  and  confused,  wondered  what 
trick  of  light  made  him  appear  more  tall  and  broad  than  they 
remembered  him;  so  that  he  seemed  to  dwarf  all  other  men. 
The  murmur  and  the  doubt  went  round,  "Is  it  the  Rusty 
Knight?" 

Then  in  a  voice  of  thunder  he  replied,  "Ay,  if  you  will,  it 
is  the  Rusty  Knight;  or  the  Red  Knight,  or  the  Knight  of  the 
Royal  Heart,  or  of  the  Hart-Royal;  but  by  any  name,  the 
knight  of  the  Proud  Rosalind,  who  is  the  proudest  and  most 
peerless  of  all  the  maids  of  Sussex,  as  this  day's  work  shall 
prove." 

And  none  laughed. 

The  joust  began ;  and  before  the  Rusty  Knight  the  rest  went 
down  like  corn  beaten  by  hail.  And  all  men  marveled  at  him, 
and  all  women  likewise.  And  the  young  Queen  Maudlin  of 
Bramber,  a  prey  to  her  whims,  loved  him  as  long  as  the  tourney 
lasted.  And  when  it  was  ended,  and  he  alone  stood  upright, 
she  rose  in  her  seat  and  held  out  to  him  the  crown  of  gold  and 
flowers  upon  a  silken  pillow,  crying,  "You  have  won  this,  you 
unknown,  unseen  champion,  and  it  is  your  right  to  give  it 
where  you  will ;  and  none  will  dispute  her  supremacy  in  beauty 
for  ever."  And  as  he  strode  and  knelt  to  receive  the  crown 
she  added  quickly,  "And  I  know  not  whether  the  promise  has 
reached  your  ears  which  yesterday  was  made — that  she  who 
accepts  the  crown  is  to  wed  the  victor,  although  he  choose  the 
Queen  herself  to  wear  it." 

And  she  smiled  down  at  him  like  morning  smiling  out  of 
the  sky ;  and  her  beauty  was  such  as  to  make  a  man  forget  all 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    223 

other  beauty  and  all  resolutions.  But  Harding  took  the  crown 
from  her  and  touched  her  hand  with  the  rusty  brow  of  his 
casque  and  said,  "A  Queen  will  wear  it,  for  my  lady's  fathers 
were  once  Kings  of  Amberley." 

Then  Maudlin  stamped  her  foot  as  a  butterfly  might,  and 
cried,  "Where  is  this  lady  whom  you  keep  as  hidden  as  your 
face?" 

And  Harding  rose  and  turned  towards  the  gateway,  and  all 
turned  with  him ;  and  into  the  arch  rode  Rosalind  on  the  white 
hart.  And  she  was  clothed  from  her  neck  to  the  soles  of  her 
naked  feet  in  a  sheath  of  silver  that  seemed  molded  to  her 
lovely  body;  and  about  her  waist  a  golden  girdle  hung,  set 
with  green  stones,  and  from  her  finger  a  great  emerald  shot 
green  fire,  and  on  her  head  a  golden  fillet  lay  in  the  likeness  of 
close-set  leaves  with  clusters  of  gleaming  green  berries  that 
were  other  emeralds;  and  under  it  her  glory  of  hair  fell  like 
liquid  metal  down  her  back  and  over  the  hart's  neck,  as  low 
as  her  silver  hem.  And  the  hart  with  its  splendid  antlers  stood 
motionless  and  proud  as  though  it  knew  it  carried  a  young 
Queen.  But  indeed  men  wondered  whether  it  were  not  a 
young  goddess.  And  so  for  a  very  few  moments  this  carven 
vision  of  gold  and  silver  and  ivory  and  molten  bronze  and  cop- 
per and  green  jewels  stood  in  their  gaze.  And  then  Harding 
bore  the  crown  to  her  and  knelt,  and  stood  up  again  and 
crowned  her  before  them  all;  and  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
white  hart's  neck,  moved  away  with  it  and  its  beautiful  rider 
through  the  gateway.  And  no  one  moved  or  spoke  or  tried  to 
stop  them.  But  by  the  footway  over  the  water-meadows  they 
went,  and  at  the  river's  edge  found  Harding's  broad  flat  boat 
with  the  bird's  beak.  And  Harding  said,  "Will  you  come  over 
the  ferry  with  me.  Proud  Rosalind  ?" 

And  Rosalind  answered,  "What  is  your  fee.  Red  Boat- 
man?" 

Then  Harding  answered,  "For  that  which  flows  I  take  only 
that  which  flows." 

And  Rosalind,  stooping  of  her  own  accord  from  the  white 
hart's  back,  kissed  him. 

I  shall  be  very  uncomfortable.  Mistress  Jane,  till  you  have 
sewed  on  my  button. 


FIFTH  INTERLUDE 

THE  milkmaids  had  not  thought  of  their  apples  for  the 
last  hour,  but  now,  remembering  them,  they  fell  to  re- 
freshing their  tongues  with  the  sweet  flavors  of  fruit 
and  talk. 

Jessica  :  I  cannot  rest,  Jane,  till  you  have  pronounced  upon 
this  story. 

Jane:  I  never  found  pronouncement  harder,  Jessica.  For 
who  can  pronounce  upon  anything  but  a  plain  truth  or  a  plain 
falsehood?  and  I  am  too  confused  to  extricate  either  from 
such  a  hotch-potch  of  magic  as  came  to  pass  without  the  help 
of  any  real  magician. 

Martin:  Oh,  Mistress  Jane!  are  you  sure  of  that?  Did 
not  Rosalind's  wishes  come  true,  and  can  there  be  magic  with- 
out a  magician? 

Jane:  Her  wishes  came  true,  I  know,  both  by  the  pool 
and  by  the  ferry;  but  that  the  pool  and  the  ferry  were  super- 
natural remains  unproved.  Because  in  both  cases  her  wishes 
were  brought  about  by  a  man.  And  if  there  was  any  other 
magician  at  all,  you  never  showed  him  to  us. 

Martin:  Dear  Mistress  Jane,  where  were  your  eyes?  I 
showed  you  the  greatest  of  all  the  magicians  that  give  ear  to 
the  wishes  of  women ;  and  when  it  is  necessary  to  bring  them 
about,  he  puts  his  power  on  a  man  and  the  man  makes  them 
come  true.  Which  is  a  magic  you  must  often  have  noticed  in 
men,  though  you  may  never  have  known  the  magician's  name. 

Joscelyn:  We  have  never  noticed  any  magic  whatever  in 
men.  And  we  don't  want  to  know  the  magician's  name.  We 
don't  believe  in  anything  so  silly  as  magic. 

Martin:  I  hope.  Mistress  Joscelyn,  there  were  moments 
in  my  story  not  too  silly  to  be  believed  in. 

Joscelyn:  Silliness  in  stories  is  more  or  less  excusable, 
since  they  are  not  even  supposed  to  be  believed.  And  is  there 
still  a  Wishing-Pool  on  Rewell  and  a  ferry  at  Bury? 

Martin:  The  ferry  is  there,  but  Harding's  hammer  is 
silent.    And  where  his  shop  stood  is  a  little  cottage  where  chil- 

224 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    225 

dren  Iive,^who  dabble  in  summer  on  the  ferry-step.  And  their 
mother  will  run  from  her  washing  or  cooking  to  take  you  over 
the  Avater  for  the  same  fee  that  Wayland  asked  for  shoeing  a 
poor  man's  donkey  or  making  a  rich  man's  sword.  And  this 
is  the  only  miracle  men  call  for  from  those  banks  to-day;  and 
if  ever  you  tried  to  take  a  boat  across  the  Bury  currents,  you 
would  not  only  believe  in  miracles  but  pray  for  one,  while  your 
boat  turned  in  mid-stream  like  a  merry-go-round.  So  there's 
no  doubt  that  the  ferry-wife  is  a  witch.  But  as  for  the  Wish- 
ing-Pool,  it  is  as  lost  as  it  was  before  the  white  hart  led  two 
lovers  to  discover  it  at  separate  times,  and  having  brought 
them  together  passed  with  them  and  its  secret  out  of  men's 
knowledge.  For  neither  it  nor  Harding  nor  Rosalind  was 
seen  again  in  Sussex  after  that  day.  And  yet  I  can  tell  you 
this  much  of  their  fortunes:  that  whatever  befell  them  wher- 
ever they  wandered,  he  was  a  king  and  she  a  queen  in  the 
sight  of  the  whole  world,  which  to  all  lovers  consists  of  one 
woman  and  one  man;  and  their  lives  were  crowned  lives,  and 
they  carried  their  crown  with  them  even  when  they  came  in 
the  same  hour  to  exchange  one  life  for  another.  But  this  was 
only  after  a  long  and  cloudless  reign  on  earth. 

Jane:  Well,  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  know  that.  For  at 
certain  times  your  story  seemed  so  overshadowed  with  clouds 
that  I  was  filled  with  doubts. 

Joan:  Oh,  but  Jane!  even  when  we  walk  in  the  thickest 
clouds  on  the  Downs,  we  are  certain  that  presently  some  light 
will  melt  them,  or  some  wind  blow  them  away. 

Joyce:  Yes,  it  never  once  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  the  end 
of  the  story. 

Jennifer:  Nor  to  me.  And  so  the  clouds  only  kept  one 
in  a  delicious  palpitation,  at  which  one  could  secretly  smile, 
without  having  to  stop  trembling. 

Jessica:  Was  it  possible,  Jane,  that  you  could  be  deceived 
as  to  the  conclusion  of  this  love-story?  Why,  even  I  saw  joy 
coming  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff. 

Martin:  And  I,  with  love  for  its  bearer.  For  that  magi- 
cian, who  touches  the  plainest  things  with  a  radiance,  makes 
plain  girls  and  boys  look  queens  and  kings,  and  plain  staves 
flowering  branches  of  joy.  And  in  this  case  I  can  think  of  only 
one  catastrophe  that  could  have  obscured  or  distorted  that 
vision. 

Two  OF  THE  Milkmaids:    What  catastrophe,  pray? 


226    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Martin:  If  Rosalind  had  refused  to  believe  in  anything 
so  silly  as  magic. 

The  silence  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  hung  over  the  Apple-Or- 
chard. 

Joscelyn:  Then  she  would  have  proved  herself  a  girl  of 
sense,  singer,  and  your  tale  would  have  gained  in  virtue.  As 
it  stands,  I  should  not  have  grieved  though  the  clouds  had 
never  been  dispersed  from  so  foolish  a  medley  of  magic  and 
make-believe. 

Martin:  So  be  it,  if  it  must  be  so.  We  will  push  back 
our  lovers  into  their  obscurities,  and  praise  night  for  the  round 
mooq  above  us,  who  has  pushed  three  parts  of  her  circle  clear 
of  all  obstacles,  and  awaits  only  some  movement  of  heaven 
to  blow  the  last  remnant  of  cloud  from  her  happy  soul.  And 
because  more  of  her  is  now  in  the  light  than  in  the  dark,  she 
knows  it  is  only  a  question  of  time.  But  the  last  hours  of 
waiting  are  always  the  longest,  and  we  like  herself  can  do  no 
better  than  spend  them  in  dreams,  where  if  we  are  lucky  we 
shall  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  angels  of  truth. 

Like  the  last  five  leaves  blown  from  an  autumn  branch,  the 
milkmaids  fluttered  from  the  apple-tree  and  couched  their 
sleepy  heads  on  their  tired  arms,  and  went  each  by  herself  into 
her  particular  dream;  where  if  she  found  company  or  not  she 
never  told.  But  Jane  sat  prim  and  thoughtful  with  her  elbow 
in  her  hand  and  her  finger  making  a  dimple  in  her  cheek,  con- 
sidering deeply.  And  presently  Martin  began  to  cough  a  little, 
andthen  a  little  more,  and  finally  so  troublesomely  that  she 
was  obliged  to  lay  her  profound  thoughts  aside,  to  attend  to 
him  with  a  little  frown.  Was  even  Euclid  impervious  to 
midges  ? 

"Have  you  taken  cold.   Master  Pippin?"  said  Jane. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  he  confessed  humbly;  "for  we  all  know  that 
when  we  catch  colds  the  grievance  is  not  ours,  but  our  nurse's." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  demanded  Jane,  rightly  affronted. 
"Have  you  been  getting  your  feet  wet  in  the  duckpond  again  ?" 

"The  trouble  lies  higher,"  murmured  Martin,  and  held  his 
shirt  together  at  the  throat. 

Jane  looked   at   him   and   colored   and   said,    "That   is  the 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    227 

merest  pretense.  It  was  only  one  button  and  it  is  a  very 
warm  night.  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  about  your 
cold." 

'Terhaps  I   am,"  said  Martin  hopefully. 

"And  you  only  coughed  and  coughed  and  kept  on  cough- 
ing," continued  Jane,  "because  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you 
and  was  thinking  of  something  quite  different." 

"It  is  almost  impossible  to  deceive  you,"  said  Martin. 

"Oh,  Master  Pippin,"  said  Jane  earnestly,  "since  I  turned 
seventeen  I  have  seen  into  people's  motives  so  clearly  that  I 
often  wish  I  did  not;  but  I  cannot  help  it." 

Martin:     You  poor  darling! 

Jane:     You  must  not  say  that  word  to  me,  Master  Pippin. 

Martin:  It  was  very  wrong  of  me.  The  word  slipped 
out  by  mistake.     I  meant  to  say  clever,  not  poor. 

Jane:    Did  you?    I  see.     Oh,  but — 

Martin:  Please  don't  be  modest.  We  must  always  stand 
by  the  truth,  don't  you  think? 

Jane:     Above  all  things. 

Martin:  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  discover  my  paltry 
ruse?     How  long  did  you  hear  me  coughing? 

Jane:     From  the  very  beginning. 

Martin:     And  can  you  think  of  two  things  at  once? 

Jane:     Of  course  not. 

Martin:  No?  I  wish  two  was  the  least  number  of  things 
I  ever  think  of  at  once.  Mine's  an  untidy  way  of  thinking. 
Still,  now  we  know  where  we  are.  What  were  you  thinking 
about  me  so  earnestly  when  I  was  coughing  and  you  had  for- 
gotten  all  about  me? 

Jane:     I — I — I  wasn't  thinking  about  you  at  all. 

And  she  got  down  from  the  swing  and  walked  away. 

Martin  :     Now  we  don't  know  where  we  are. 

And  he  got  down  from  the  branch  and  walked  after  her. 

Martin:     Please,  Mistress  Jane,  are  you  in  a  temper? 

Jane:     I  am  never  in  a  temper. 

Martin  :     Hurrah. 

Jane:  Being  in  a  temper  is  silly.  It  isn't  normal.  And 
it  clouds  people's  judgments. 

Martin:  So  do  lots  of  things,  don't  they?  Like  leap- 
frog, and  mad  bulls,  and  rum  punch,  and  very  full  moons,  and 
love — 

Jane:    All  these  things  are,  as  you  say,  abnormal.    And  I 


228    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

have  no  more  use  for  them  than  I  have  for  tempers.  But  be- 
ing disheartened  isn't  being  in  a  temper;  and  I  am  always  dis- 
heartened when  people  argue  badly.  And  above  all,  men,  who, 
I  find,  can  never  keep  to  the  point.     Although  they  say — 

Martin:     What  do  they  say? 

Jane:     That  girls  can't. 

Martin  began  to  cough  again,  and  Jane  looked  at  him 
closely,  and  Martin  apologized  and  said  it  was  that  tickle  in 
his  throat,  and  Jane  said  gravely,  "Do  you  think  I  can't  see 
through  you?  Come  along,  do!"  and  opened  her  housewife, 
and  put  on  her  thimble,  and  threaded  her  needle,  and  got  out 
the  button,  and  made  Martin  stand  in  a  patch  of  moonlight, 
and  stood  herself  in  front  of  him,  and  took  the  neck  of  his 
shirt  deftly  between  her  left  finger  and  thumb,  and  began 
to  stitch.  And  Martin  looking  down  on  the  top  of  her  smooth 
little  head,  which  was  all  he  could  see  of  her,  said  anxiously, 
"You  won't  prick  me,  will  you?"  and  Jane  answered,  "I'll 
try  not  to,  but  it  is  very  awkward."  Because  to  get  behind 
the  button  she  had  to  lean  her  right  elbow  on  his  shoulder  and 
stand  a  little  on  tiptoe.  So  that  Martin  had  good  cause  to  be 
frightened ;  but  after  several  stitches  he  realized  that  he  was 
in  safe  hands,  and  drew  a  big  breath  of  relief  which  made  Jane 
look  up  rather  too  hastily,  and  down  more  hastily  still;  so 
that  her  hand  shook,  and  the  needle  slipped,  and  Martin  said 
"Ow!"  and  clutched  the  hand  with  the  needle  and  held  it 
tightly  just  where  it  was.  And  Jane  got  flustered  and  said, 
"I'm  so  sorry." 

Martin  :  Why  should  you  be  ?  You've  proved  your  point. 
If  I  knew  any  man  that  could  stick  to  his  so  well  and  drive  it 
home  so  truly,  I  would  excuse  him  for  ever  from  politics  and 
the  law,  and  bid  him  sit  at  home  with  his  work-basket  mind- 
ing the  world's  business  in  its  cradle.  It  is  only  because  men 
cannot  stick  to  the  point  that  life  puts  them  off  with  the  little 
jobs  which  shift  and  change  color  with  every  generation.  But 
the  great  point  of  life  which  never  changes  was  given  from  the 
first  into  woman's  keeping  because,  as  all  the  divine  powers  of 
reason  knew,  only  she  could  be  trusted  to  stick  to  it.  I  should 
be  glad  to  have  your  opinion,  Jane,  as  to  whether  this  is  true 
or  not. 

Jane:    Yes,  Martin,  I  am  convinced  it  is  true. 

Martin:  Then  let  the  men  shilly-shally  as  much  as  they 
like.    And  so,  as  long  as  the  cradle  is  there  to  be  minded,  we 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    229 

shall  have  proved  that  out  of  tvi^o  differences  unions  can  spring. 
My  buttonhole  feels  empty.    What  about  my  button? 

Jane:    I  was  just  about  to  break  off  the  thread  when  you — 

Martin:    When  I  what? 

Jane  :    Sighed. 

Martin:  Was  it  a  sigh?  Did  I  sigh?  How  unreasonable 
of  me.    What  was  I  sighing  for?    Do  you  know? 

Jane:    Of  course  I  know. 

Martin  :    Will  you  tell  me  ? 

Jane:  That's  enough.  (And  she  tried  to  break  off  the 
thread.) 

Martin  :  Ah,  but  you  mustn't  keep  your  wisdom  to  your- 
self.    Give  me  the  key,  dear  Jane. 

Jane:     The  key? 

Martin  :  Because  how  else  can  the  clouds  which  overshadow 
our  stories  be  cleared  away?  How  else  can  we  allay  our  doubts 
and  our  confusions  and  our  sorrows  if  you  who  are  wise,  and 
see  motives  so  clearly,  will  not  give  us  the  key?  Why  did  I 
sigh,  Jane?  And  why  does  Gillian  sigh?  And,  oh,  Jane,  why 
are  you  sighing?    Do  you  know? 

Jane:    Of  course  I  know. 

Martin:    And  won't  you  give  me  the  key? 

Jane:    That's  quite  enough. 

And  this  time  she  broke  off  the  thread.  And  she  put  the 
needle  in  and  out  of  the  pinked  flannel  in  her  housewife,  and 
she  tucked  the  thimble  in  its  place.  And  then  she  felt  in  a  little 
pocket  where  something  clinked  against  her  scissors,  and  Mar- 
tin watched  her.  And  she  took  it  out  and  put  it  in  his  hand. 
And  his  hand  tightened  again  over  hers  and  he  said  gravely, 
"Is  it  a  needle?" 

"No,  it  is  not,"  said  Jane  primly,  "but  it's  very  much  to  the 
point." 

"Oh,  you  wise  woman!"  whispered  Martin  (and  Jane  col- 
ored with  satisfaction,  because  she  was  turned  seventeen). 
"What  would  poor  men  do  without  your  help?" 

Then  he  kissed  very  respectfully  the  hand  that  had  pricked 
him:  on  the  back  and  on  the  palm  and  on  the  four  fingers  and 
thumb  and  on  the  wrist.  And  then  he  began  looking  for  a  new 
place,  but  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  Jane  had  taken  het 
hand  and  herself  away,  saying  "Good  night"  very  politely  as 
she  went.  So  he  lay  down  to  dream  that  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  had  made  up  his  mind.     But  Jane,  whose  mind  wa« 


230    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

always  made  up,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  dreamed  other- 
wise. 

It  happened  that  by  some  imprudence  Martin  had  laid  him- 
self down  exactly  under  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  and  when  Old 
Gillman  came  along  the  other  side  crying  "Maids!"  in  the 
morning,  the  careless  fellow  had  no  time  to  retreat  across  the 
open  to  safe  cover;  so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  conceal 
himself  under  the  very  nose  of  danger  and  roll  into  the  ditch.. 
Which  he  hurriedly  did,  while  the  milkmaids  ran  here  and 
there  like  yellow  chickens  frightened  by  a  hawk.  Not  knowing 
what  else  to  do,  they  at  last  clustered  above  him  about  the  gap, 
filling  it  so  with  their  pretty  faces  that  the  farmer  found  room 
for  not  so  much  as  an  eyelash  when  he  arrived  with  his  bread. 
And  it  was  for  all  the  world  as  though  the  hedge,  forgetting 
it  was  autumn,  had  broken  out  at  that  particular  spot  into  pink- 
and-white  may.  So  that  even  Old  Gillman  had  no  fault  to 
find  with  the  arrangement. 

"All  astir,  my  maids?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  master,  yes !"  they  answered  breathlessly ;  all  but  Josce- 
lyn,  who  cried,  "Oh!  oh!  oh!"  and  bit  her  lip  hard,  and  stood 
suddenly  on  one  foot. 

"What's  amiss  with  ye?"  asked  Gillman. 

"Nothing,  master,"  said  she,  very  red  in  the  face.  "A  nettle 
stung  my  ankle." 

"Well,  I'd  not  weep  for  't,"  said  Gillman. 

"Indeed  I'm  not  weeping!"  cried  Joscelyn  loudly. 

"Then  it  did  but  tickle  ye,  I  doubt,"  said  Gillman  slyly,  "to 
blushing-point." 

"Master,  I  am  not  blushing!"  protested  Joscelyn.  "The 
sun's  on  my  face  and  in  my  eyes,  don't  you  see?" 

"I  would  he  were  on  my  daughter's,  then,"  said  Gillman. 
"Does  Gillian  still  sit  in  her  own  shadow?" 

"Yes,  master,"  answered  Jane,  "but  I  think  she  will  be  in 
the  light  very  shortly." 

"If  she  be  not,"  groaned  Gillman,  "it's  a  shadow  she'll 
find  instead  of  a  father  when  she  comes  back  to  the  farmstead ; 
for  who  can  sow  wild  oats  at  my  time  o'  life,  and  not  show  it 
at  last  in  his  frame?     Yet  I  was  a  stout  man  once." 

"Take  heart,  master,"  urged  Joyce  eyeing  his  waistcoat.  But 
he  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  be  deceived,  maid.     Drink  makes  neither  flesh  nor 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    231 

gristle;  only  inflation.     Gillian!"  he  shouted,  "when  will  ye 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  job  and  a  solid  man  of  your  dad  again?" 

But  the  donkey  braying  in  its  paddock  got  as  much  answer 
as  he. 

"Well,  it's  lean  days  for  all,  maids,"  said  Gillman,  and  doled 
out  the  loaves  from  his  basket,  "and  you  must  suffer  even  as  I. 
Yet  another  day  may  see  us  grow  fat."  And  he  turned  his 
basket  upside  down  on  his  head  and  moved  away. 
-  "Excuse  me,  master,"  said  Jane,  "but  is  Nellie,  my  little 
Dexter  Kerry,  doing  nicely?" 

"As  nicely  as  she  ever  does  with  any  man,"  said  Gillman, 
"which  is  to  kick  John  twice  a  day,  mornings  and  evenings.  He 
says  he's  getting  used  to  it,  and  will  miss  it  when  you  come 
back  to  manage  her.  But  before  that  happens  I  misdoubt  we'll 
all  be  plunged  in  rack  and  ruin." 

And  he  departed,  making  his  usual  parrot-cry. 

"I'm  getting  fond  of  old  Gillman,"  said  Martin  sitting  up 
and  picking  dead  leaves  out  of  his  hair;  "I  like  his  hawker's 
cry  of  'Maids,  maids,  maids!'  for  all  the  world  as  though  he 
had  pretty  girls  to  sell,  and  I  like  the  way  he  groans  regrets 
over  his  empty  basket  as  he  goes  away.  But  if  I  had  those 
wares  for  market  I'd  ask  such  unfair  prices  for  them  that  I'd 
never  be  out  of  stock." 

"What's  an  unfair  price  for  a  pretty  girl,  Master  Pippin?" 
asked  Jessica. 

"It  varies,"  said  Martin.  "Joan  I'd  not  sell  for  less  than  an 
apple,  or  Joyce  for  a  gold-brown  hair.  I  might  accept  a  blade 
of  grass  for  Jennifer  and  be  tempted  by  a  button  for  Jane. 
You,  Jessica,  I  rate  as  high  as  a  saucy  answer." 

"Simple  fees  all,"  laughed  Joyce. 

"Not  so  simple,"  said  Martin,  "for  it  must  be  the  right  apple 
and  the  particular  hair;  only  one  of  all  the  grass-blades  in  the 
world  will  do,  and  it  must  be  a  certain  button  or  none.  Also 
there  are  answers  and  answers." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Jessica,  "I'm  afraid  you've  got  us  all  on 
your  hands  for  ever.  But  at  what  price  would  you  sell  Josce- 
lyn?" 

"At  nothing  less,"  said  Martin,  "than  a  yellow  shoe-string." 

Joscelyn  stamped  her  left  foot  so  furioulsy  that  her  shoe  came 
oflF.  And  little  Joan,  anxious  to  restore  peace,  ran  and  picked 
it  up  for  her  and  said,  "Why,  Joscelyn,  you've  lost  your  lace! 
Where  can  it  be?"     But  Joscelyn  only  looked  angrier  still, 


232    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

and  went  without  answering  to  set  Gillian's  bread  by  the  Well- 
House;  where  she  found  nothing  whatever  but  a  little  crust  of 
yesterday's  loaf.  And  surprised  out  of  her  vexation  she  ran 
back  again  exclaiming,  "Look,  look!  as  surely  as  Gillian  is  find- 
ing her  appetite  I  think  she  is  losing  her  grief." 

"The  argument  is  as  absolute,"  said  Martin,  "as  that  if  we 
do  not  soon  breakfast  my  appetite  will  become  my  grief.  But 
those  miserable  ducks!" 

And  he  snatched  the  crust  from  Joscelyn's  hand  and  flung  it 
mightily  into  the  pond;  where  the  drake  gobbled  it  whole  and 
the  ducks  got  nothing. 

And  the  girls  cried  "What  a  shame!"  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, all  but  Joscelyn  who  said  under  her  l-reath  to  Martin, 
"Give  it  back  at  once!"  But  he  didn't  secrr\*.to  hear  her,  and 
raced  the  others  gayly  to  the  tree  where  they  always  picnicked ; 
and  they  all  fell  to  in  such  good  spirits  that  Joscelyn  looked 
from  one  to  another  very  doubtfully,  and  suddenly  felt  left  out 
in  the  cold.  And  she  came  slowly  and  sat  down  not  quite  in 
rthe  circle,  and  kept  her  left  foot  under  her  all  the  time. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  Jennifer  sighed,  "I  wish  it 
were  dinner-time." 

"What  a  greedy  wish,"  said  Martin. 

"And  then,"  said  she,  "I  wish  it  were  supper-time." 

"Why?"  said  he. 

"Because  it  would  be  nearer  to-morrow,"  said  Jennifer  pen- 
sively. 

"Do  you  want  it  to  be  to-morrow  so  much?"  asked  Martin. 
And  five  of  the  milkmaids  cried,  "Oh,  yes!" 

"That's  better  than  wanting  it  to  be  yesterday,"  said  Mar- 
tin, "yet  I'm  always  so  pleased  with  to-day  that  I  never  want 
it  to  be  either.  And  as  for  old  time,  I  read  him  by  a  dial  which 
makes  it  any  hour  I  choose." 

"What  dial's  that?"  asked  Joyce.  And  Martin  looked  about 
for  a  Dandelion  Clock,  and  having  found  one  blew  it  all  away 
with  a  single  puff  and  cried,  "One  o'clock  and  dinner-time!" 

Then  Jennifer  got  a  second  puff  and  blew  on  it  so  carefully 
that  she  was  able  to  say,  "Seven  o'clock  and  supper-time!" 

And  then  all  the  girls  hastened  to  get  clocks  of  their  own, 
and  make  their  favorite  time  o'  day. 

"When  I  can't  make  it  come  right,"  confided  little  Joan 
to  Martin,  "I  pull  them  off  and  say  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    233 

"It's  a  very  good  way,"  agreed  Martin,  "and  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  is  a  very  good  hour,  except  for  lazy  lie-abeds. 
Isn't  it?" 

"Nancy  always  looked  for  me  at  six  of  a  summer  morning," 
said  little  Joan. 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "milkmaids  must  always  turn  their  cows 
in  before  the  dew's  dry.    And  carters  their  horses." 

"Sometimes  they  get  so  mixed  in  the  lane,"  said  Joan, 

"I  am  sure  they  do,"  said  Martin.  "How  glad  your  cows 
will  be  to  see  you  all  again." 

"Are  you  certain  we  shall  be  out  of  the  orchard  to-morrow. 
Master  Pippin?"  asked  Jane. 

"Heaven  help  us  otherwise,"  said  he,  "for  I've  but  one  tale 
left  in  my  quiver,  and  if  it  does  not  make  an  end  of  the  job, 
here  we  must  stay  for  the  rest  of  our  lives,  puffing  time  away 
in  gossamer." 

Then  Jessica,  blowing,  cried,  "Four  o'clock!  come  in  to  tea!" 

And  Joyce  said,  "Twelve  o'clock!  baste  the  goose  in  the 
oven."  i 

"Three  o'clock!  change  your  frock!"  said  Jane. 

"Eight  o'clock!  postman's  knock!"  said  Jennifer. 

"Ten  o'clock!  to  bed,  to  bed!"  cried  Jessica  again. 

"Nine  o'clock! — let  me  run  down  the  lane  for  a  moment 
first,"  begged  little  Joan. 

Then  Martin  blew  eighteen  o'clock  and  said  it  was  six  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning.  And  all  the  girls  clapped  their  hands 
for  joy — all  except  Joscelyn,  who  sat  quite  by  herself  in  a 
corner  of  the  orchard,  and  neither  blew  nor  listened.  And  so 
they  continued  to  change  the  hour  and  the  occupation:  now 
washing,  now  wringing,  now  drying;  now  milking,  now  baking, 
now  mending ;  now  cooking  their  meal,  now  eating  it ;  now 
strolling  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  now  going  to  market  on 
marketing-day: — till  by  dinner  they  had  filled  the  morning  with 
a  week  of  hours,  and  the  air  with  downy  seedlings,  as  exquisite 
as  crystals  of  frost. 

At  dinner  the  maids  ate  very  little,  and  Jessica  said,  "I  think 
I'm  getting  tired  of  bread." 

"And  apples?"  said  Martin. 

"One  never  gets  tired  of  apples,"  said  Jessica,  "but  I  would 
like  to  have  them  roasted  for  a  change,  with  cream.  Or  in  a 
dumpling  with  brown  sugar.  And  instead  of  bread  I  would 
like  plum-cake." 


234    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"What  wouldn't  I  give  for  a  bowl  of  curds  and  whey!"  ex- 
claimed Joyce. 

'Truit  salad  and  custard  is  nice,"  sighed  Jennifer. 

"I  could  fancy  a  lemon  cheesecake,"  observed  Jane,  "or  a 
jam  tart." 

"I  should  like  bread-and-honey,"  said  little  Joan.  "Bread- 
and-honey's  the  best  of  all." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Martin. 

"You  always  have  to  suck  your  fingers  afterwards,"  said 
Joan. 

"That's  why,"  said  Martin.  "Quince  jelly  is  good  too,  and 
treacle  because  if  you're  quick  you  can  write  }'Our  name  in  it, 
and  pickled  walnuts,  and  mushrooms,  and  strawberries,  and 
green  salad,  and  plovers'  eggs,  and  cherries  are  ripping  espe- 
cially in  earrings,  and  macaroons,  and  cheesestraws,  and  ginger- 
bread, and — " 

"Stop!  stop!  stop!  stop!  stop!"  cried  the  milkmaids. 

"I  can  hardly  bear  it  myself,"  said  Martin.  "Let's  play 
See-Saw." 

So  the  maids  rolled  up  a  log  from  one  part  of  the  orchard, 
and  Martin  got  a  plank  from  another  part,  because  the  or- 
chard was  full  of  all  manner  of  things  as  well  as  girls  and  ap- 
ples, and  he  straddled  one  end  and  said,  "Who  first?"  And  Jes- 
sica straddled  the  other  as  quick  as  a  boy,  and  went  up  with  a 
whoop.  But  Joyce,  who  presently  turned  her  ofi,  sat  sideways 
as  gay  and  graceful  as  a  lady  in  a  circus.  And  Jennifer  crouched 
a  little  and  clung  rather  hard  with  her  hands,  but  laughed 
bravely  all  the  time.  And  Jane  thought  she  wouldn't,  and  then 
she  thought  she  would,  and  squeaked  when  she  went  up  and  fell 
off  when  she  came  down,  so  that  Martin  tumbled  too,  and 
apologized  to  her  earnestly  for  his  clumsiness ;  and  while  he 
rubbed  his  elbows  she  said  it  didn't  matter  at  all.  But  little 
Joan  took  off  her  shoes,  and  with  her  hands  behind  her  head 
stood  on  the  end  of  the  see-saw  as  lightly  as  a  sunray  standing 
on  a  wave,  and  she  looked  up  and  down  at  Martin,  half  shyly 
because  she  was  afraid  she  was  showing  off,  and  half  smiling 
because  she  was  as  happy  as  a  bird.  And  Joscelyn  wouldn't 
play.  Then  the  girls  told  Martin  he'd  had  more  than  his  share, 
and  made  him  get  off,  and  struggled  for  possession  of  the  see- 
saw like  Kings  of  the  Castle.  And  Martin  strolled  up  to 
Joscelyn  and  said  persuasively,  "It's  such  fun!"  but  Joscelyn 
only  frowned  and  answered,  "Give  it  back  to  me!"  and  Mar- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    235 

tin  didn't  seem  to  understand  her  and  returned  to  the  see-saw, 
and  suggested  three  a  side  and  he  would  look  after  Jane  very 
carefully.  So  he  and  Jane  and  Jennifer  got  on  one  end,  and 
Jessica,  Joyce  and  Joan  sat  on  the  other,  and  screaming  and 
laughing  they  tossed  like  a  boat  on  a  choppy  sea:  until  Jessica 
without  any  warning  jumped  ol^  her  perch  in  mid-air  and  de- 
stroyed the  balance,  and  down  they  all  came  helter-skelter, 
laughing  and  screaming  more  than  ever.  But  Jane  reproved 
Jessica  for  her  trick  and  said  nobody  would  believe  her  another 
time,  and  that  it  was  a  bad  thing  to  destroy  people's  confidence 
in  you;  and  Jessica  wiped  her  hot  face  on  her  sleeve  and  said 
she  was  awfully  sorry,  because  she  admired  Jane  more  than  any- 
body else  in  the  world.  Then  Martin  looked  at  the  sun  and 
said,  "You've  barely  time  to  get  tidy  for  supper."  So  the  milk- 
maids ran  oft  to  smooth  their  hair  and  their  kerchiefs  and  do 
up  ribbons  and  buttons  or  whatever  else  was  necessary.  And 
came  fresh  and  rosy  to  their  meal,  of  which  not  one  of  them 
could  touch  a  morsel,  she  declared. 

"Dear,  dear,  dear!"  said  Martin  anxiously.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you  all?" 

But  they  really  didn't  know.  They  just  weren't  hungry.  So 
please  wouldn't  he  tell  them  a  story? 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  Martin.  "I  shall  have  you  ill  on 
my  hands.     An  apple  apiece,  or  no  story  to-night." 

At  this  dreadful  threat  Joan  plucked  the  nearest  apple  she 
could  find,  which  was  luckily  a  Cox's  Pippin. 

"Must  I  eat  it  all,  Martin?"  she  asked.  (And  Joscelyn 
looked  at  her  quickly  with  that  doubtful  look  which  had  been 
growing  on  her  all  the  day.) 

"All  but  the  skin,"  said  Martin  kindly.  And  taking  the 
apple  from  her  he  peeled  it  cleverly  from  bud  to  stem,  and 
handed  her  back  nothing  but  the  peel.  And  she  twirled  the 
peel  three  times  round  her  head,  and  dropped  it  in  the  grass 
behind  her. 

"What  is  it?  what  is  it?"  cried  the  milkmaids,  crowding. 

"It's  a  C,"  said  Martin.  And  he  gave  Joan  her  apple,  and 
she  ate  it. 

Then  Joyce  came  to  Martin  with  a  Beauty  of  Bath,  and  he 
peeled  it  as  he  had  Joan's,  and  withheld  the  fruit  until  she  had 
performed  her  rite.  And  her  letter  was  M.  Jennifer  brought 
a  Worcester  Pearmain,  and  threw  a  T.  And  Jessica  chose  a 
Curlytail  and  made  a  perfect  O.     And  Jane,  who  preferred  a 


236    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Russet,  threw  her  own  initial,  and  Martin  said  seriously, 
You're  to  be  an  old  maid,  Jane."  (And  Joscelyn  looked  at 
him.)  And  Jane  replied,  "I  don't  see  that  at  all.  There  are 
lots  and  lots  of  J's,  Martin."  (And  Joscelyn  looked  at  her.) 
Then  Martin  turned  inquiringly  to  Joscelyn,  and  she  said,  "I 
don't  want  one."  "No  stories  then,"  said  Martin  as  firm  as 
Nurse  at  bedtime.  And  she  shook  her  shoulders  impatiently. 
But  he  himself  picked  her  a  King  of  Pippins,  the  biggest  and 
reddest  in  the  orchard,  and  peeled  it  like  the  rest  and  gave  her 
the  peel.  And  very  crossly  she  jerked  it  thrice  round  her  head, 
so  that  it  broke  into  three  bits,  and  they  fell  on  the  grass  in  the 
shape  of  an  agitated  H.    And  Martin  gave  her  also  her  Pippin. 

"But  what  about  your  own  supper?"  said  little  Joan. 

And  Martin,  glancing  from  one  to  another,  gathered  a  Cox, 
a  Beauty,  a  Pearmain,  a  Curlytail,  a  Russet,  and  a  King  of 
Pippins;  and  he  peeled  and  ate  them  one  after  another,  and 
then,  one  after  another,  whirled  the  parings.  And  every  one 
of  the  parings  was  a  J. 

Then,  while  Martin  stood  looking  down  at  the  six  J's  among 
the  clover-grass,  and  the  milkmaids  looked  anywhere  else  and 
said  nothing:  little  Joan  slipped  away  and  came  back  with  the 
smallest,  prettiest,  and  rosiest  Lady  Apple  in  Gillman's  Orchard, 
and  said  softly,  "This  one's  for  you." 

So  Martin  pared  it  slenderly,  and  the  peel  lay  in  his  hand 
like  a  ribljon  of  rose-red  silk  shot  with  gold ;  and  he  coiled  it 
lightly  three  times  round  his  head  and  dropped  it  over  his  left 
shoulder.  And  as  suddenly  as  bubbles  sucked  into  the  heart  of 
a  little  whirlpool,  the  milkmaids  ran  to  get  a  look  at  the  letter. 
But  Martin  looked  first,  and  when  the  ring  of  girls  stood  round 
about  him  he  put  his  foot  quickly  on  the  apple-peel  and  rubbed 
it  into  the  grass.  And  without  even  tasting  it  he  tossed  his  little 
Lady  Apple  right  over  the  wicket,  and  beyond  the  duckpond, 
and,  for  all  the  girls  could  see,  to  Adversane. 

Then  Jane  and  Jessica  and  Jennifer  and  Joyce  and  little 
Joan,  as  by  a  single  instinct,  each  climbed  to  a  bough  of  the 
center  apple-tree,  and  left  the  swing  empty.  And  Martin  sat 
on  his  own  bough  and  waited  for  Joscelyn.  And  very  slowly 
she  came  and  sat  on  the  swing  and  said  without  looking  at 
him: 

"We're  all  ready  now." 

"All?"  said  Martin.  And  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  Well- 
House,  where  it  made  no  difference. 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    237 

"Most  of  us,  anyhow,"  said  Joscelyn;  "and  whoever  isn't 
ready  is — nearly  ready." 

"Yet  most  is  not  all,  and  nearly  is  not  quite,"  said  Martin, 
"and  would  you  be  satisfied  if  I  could  only  tell  you  most  of  my 
story,  and  was  obliged  to  break  off  when  it  was  nearly  done? 
Alas,  with  me  it  must  be  the  whole  or  nothing,  and  I  cannot 
make  a  beginning  unless  I  can  see  the  end." 

"All  beginnings  must  have  endings,"  said  Joscelyn,  "so  be- 
gin at  once,  and  the  end  will  follow  of  itself." 

"Yet  suppose  it  were  some  other  end  than  I  set  out  for?" 
said  Martin.  "There's  no  telling  with  these  endings  that  go 
of  themselves.  We  mean  one  thing,  but  they  mistake  our 
meaning  and  show  us  another.  Like  the  simple  maid  who  was 
sent  to  fetch  her  lady's  slippers  and  her  lady's  smock,  and 
brought  the  wrong  ones." 

"She  must  have  been  some  ignorant  maid  from  a  town,"  said 
Jane,  "if  she  did  not  know  lady-smocks  and  lady's-slippers  when 
she  saw  them." 

"It  was  either  her  mistake  or  her  lady's,"  said  Martin  care- 
lessly. "You  shall  judge  which."  And  he  tuned  his  lute  and, 
still  looking  at  the  Well-House,  sang: 

The  Lady  sat  in  a  Hood  of  tears 

All  of  her  sweet  eyes'  shedding. 

"To-morrow,  to-morroiu  the  paths  of  sorrow 

Are  the  paths  that  I'll  be  treading." 

So  she  sent  her  lass  for  her  slippers  of  black. 

But  the  careless  lass  came  running  back 

With  slippers  as  bright 

As  fairy  gold 

Or  noonday  light, 

That  were  heeled  and  soled 
To  dance  in  at  a  wedding. 

The  Lady  sat  in  a  storm  of  sighs 
Raised  by  her  own  heart-searching. 
"To-morrow  must  I  in  the  churchyard  lie 
Because  love  is  an  urchin." 
So  she  sent  her  lass  for  her  sable  frock. 
But  the  silly  lass  brought  a  silken  smock 

So  fair  to  be  seen 

With  a  rosy  shade 

And  a  lavender  sheen, 

That  was  only  made 
For  a  bride  to  come  from  church  in. 

Now  as  Martin  sang,  Gillian  got  first  on  her  elbow,  and  then 
on  her  knees,  and  last  upright  on  her  two  feet.    And  her  face 


238    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

was  turned  full  on  the  duckpond,  and  her  eyes  gazed  as  though 
she  could  see  more  and  further  than  any  other  woman  in  the 
world,  and  her  two  hands  held  her  heart  as  though  but  for  this 
it  must  follow  her  eyes  and  be  lost  to  her  for  ever. 

"So  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Joscelyn,  "there's  nothing  to  choose 
between  the  foolishness  of  the  maid  and  that  of  the  mistress. 
But  since  Gillian  appears  to  have  risen  to  some  sense  in  it,  for 
goodness'  sake,  before  she  sinks  back  on  her  own  folly,  tell  us 
your  tale  and  be  done  with  it!" 

"It  is  now  ready,"  said  Martin,  "from  start  to  finish.  Glass 
is  not  clearer  nor  daylight  plainer  to  me  than  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole,  and  if  you  will  listen  for  a  very  few  instants, 
you  shall  see  as  certainly  as  I  the  ending  of  The  Imprisoned 
Princess." 


THE  IMPRISONED  PRINCESS 

THERE  was  once,  dear  maidens,  a  Princess  who  was  kept 
on  an  island. 

(Joscelyn:    There  are  no  islands  in  Sussex. 
Martin  :    This  didn't  happen  in  Sussex. 
Joscelyn:    But  I  thought  it  was  a  true  story. 
Martin:    It  is  the  only  true  story  of  them  all.) 

She  was  kept  on  the  island  locked  up  in  a  tower,  for  the  best 
of  all  the  reasons  in  the  world.  She  had  fallen  in  love.  She 
had  fallen  in  love  with  her  father's  Squire.  So  the  King  ban- 
ished him  for  ever  and  locked  up  his  daughter  in  a  tower  on  an 
island,  and  had  it  guarded  by  six  Gorgons. 

(Joscelyn:    It's  «o?  a  true  story! 

Martin  :  It  w  a  true  story !  If  you  don't  say  so  at  the  end 
I'll  give  you — 

Joscelyn:  What? — I  don't  want  you  to  give  me  anything! 
Martin:    All  right  then. 
Joscelyn:    What  will  you  give  me? 
Martin:     A  yellow  shoe-string.) 

By  six  Gorgons  {repeated  Martin)  who  had  the  sharpest 
claws  and  the  snakiest  hair  of  any  Gorgons  there  ever  were. 
And  their  faces — 

(Joscelyn:    Leave  their  faces  alone! 
Martin:    You're  being  a  perfect  nuisance! 
Joscelyn:     I  simply  hate  this  story! 
Martin:    Tell  it  yourself  then! 
Joscelyn:    What  about  their  faces?) 

Their  faces  {said  Martin)  were  as  beautiful  as  day  and 
night  and  the  four  seasons  of  the  year.  They  were  so  beautiful 
that  I  must  stop  talking  about  them  or  I  shall  never  talk  about 
anything  else.  So  I'd  better  talk  about  the  young  Squire,  who 
was  a  great  deal  less  interesting,  except  for  one  thing:  that  he 
was  in  love.  Which  is  a  big  advantage  to  have  over  Gorgons, 
who  never  are.     The  only  other  noteworthy  thing  about  him 

239 


240    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

was  that  his  voice  was  breaking  because  he  was  merely  fifteen 
years  old.  He  was  just  a  sort  of  Odd  Boy  about  the  King's 
court. 

(Martin:  Mistress  Joscelyn,  if  you  keep  on  wiggling  so 
much  you'll  get  a  nasty  tumble.  Kindly  sit  still  and  let  me  get 
on.     This  isn't  a  very  long  story.) 

One  morning  in  April  this  Squire  sat  down  at  the  end  of 
the  world,  and  he  sobbed  and  he  sighed  like  any  poor  soul ;  and 
a  sort  of  wandering  fellow  who  was  going  by  had  enough  curi- 
osity to  stop  and  ask  him  what  was  the  matter.  And  the  Squire 
told  him,  and  added  that  his  heart  was  breaking  for  longing 
of  the  flower  that  his  lady  wore  in  her  hair.  So  this  fellow 
said,  "Is  that  all?"  And  he  got  into  his  boat,  which  had  a 
painted  prow,  and  a  light  green  pennon,  and  a  gilded  sail,  and 
called  itself  The  Golden  Truant,  and  he  sailed  away  a  thou- 
sand leagues  over  the  water  till  he  came  to  the  island  where 
the  princess  was  imprisoned;  and  the  six  Gorgons  came  hissing 
to  the  shore,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  And  he  said  he 
wanted  nothing  but  to  play  and  sing  to  them;  so  they  let  him. 
And  while  he  did  so  they  danced  and  forgot,  and  he  ran  to 
the  tower  and  found  the  Princess  with  her  beautiful  head  bowed 
on  the  windowsill  behind  the  bars,  weeping  like  January  rain. 
And  he  climbed  up  the  wall  and  took  from  her  hair  the  flower 
as  she  wept,  in  exchange  for 'another  which — which  the  Squire 
had  sent  her.  And  she  whispered  a  word  of  sorrow,  and  he 
another  of  comfort,  and  came  away.  And  the  Gorgons  sus- 
pected nothing;  except  perhaps  the  littlest  Gorgon,  and  she 
looked  the  other  way. 

So  in  the  summer  the  Squire  told  the  Wanderer  that  he 
would  surely  die  unless  he  had  his  lady's  ring  to  kiss;  and  the 
fellow  went  again  to  the  island.  The  Gorgons  were  not  sorry 
to  see  him,  and  were  willing  to  dance  while  he  played  and  sang 
as  before;  and  as  before  he  took  advantage  of  their  pleasure, 
and  stole  the  gold  ring  from  the  Princess's  hand  as  she  lay  in 
tears  behind  her  bars.  But  in  place  of  the  gold  ring  he  left  a 
silver  one  which  had  belonged  to — to  the  Squire.  And  the 
voice  of  her  despair  spoke  through  her  tears,  and  he  answered 
it  as  best  he  could  with  the  voice  of  hope.  And  went  away  as 
before,  leaving  the  Gorgons  dancing. 

Then  in  the  autumn  the  Squire  said  to  the  Wanderer,  "Who 
can  live  on  flowers  and  rings?     If  you  do  not  get  me  my  ladsr 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    241 

herself,  let  me  lie  in  my  grave."  So  the  Wanderer  set  sail  for 
the  third  time,  though  he  knew  that  the  dangers  and  difficulties 
of  this  last  adventure  were  supreme ;  and  once  more  he  landed 
on  the  island  of  the  Imprisoned  Princess.  And  this  time  the 
Gorgons  even  appeared  a  little  pleased  to  see  him,  and  let  him 
stay  with  them  six  days  and  nights,  telling  them  stories,  and 
singing  them  songs,  and  inventing  games  to  keep  them  amused. 
For  he  was  very  sorry  for  them. 

(Joscelyn:    Why?    Why?    Why? 

Martin  :  Because  he  discovered  that  they  were  even  unhap- 
pier  than  the  Princess  in  her  tower. 

Joscelyn:    It  isn't  true!     It  isn't  true! 
Martin:    Look  out!  you're  losing  your  slipper.) 

Of  course  the  Gorgons  were  unhappier  than  the  Princess. 
She  was  only  parted  from  her  lover ;  but  they  were  parted  from 
love  itself. 

But  as  the  week  wore  on,  miracles  happened ;  for  every  night 
one  of  the  Gorgons  turned  into  the  beautiful  girl  she  used  to 
be  before  the  Goddess  of  Reason,  infuriated  with  the  Irrational 
God  who  bestows  on  girls  their  quite  unreasonable  loveliness, 
had  made  her  what  she  was.  And  night  by  night  the  Wan- 
derer rubbed  his  eyes  and  wondered  if  he  had  been  dreaming; 
for  the  guardians  of  the  tower  no  longer  hissed,  but  sighed  at 
love,  and  instead  of  claws  for  the  destructions  of  lovers  had 
beautiful  kind  hands  that  longed  to  help  them.  Until  on  the 
sixth  night  only  one  remained  this  fellow's  enemy.  But  alas! 
she  was  the  strongest  and  fiercest  of  them  all. 

(Joscelyn:    How  dare  you!) 

And  her  case  (said  Martin)  was  hopeless,  because  she  alone  of 
them  all  had  never  known  what  love  was,  and  so  had  nothing 
to  be  restored  to. 

(Joscelyn:    How  dare  you!) 

And  without  her  (said  Martin)  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
She  had  always  had  the  others  under  her  thumb,  and  by  this 
time  she  had  the  Wanderer  in  exactly  the  same  place.  And  so 
— and  so — 

And  so  here  is  your  shoe-string.  Mistress  Joscelyn ;  and  I 
am  sorry  the  want  of  it  has  been  such  an  inconvenience  to  you 
all  day,  so  that  you  could  not  make  merry  with  us.    But  I  must 


242    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

forfeit  it  now,  for  the  story  is  ended,  and  I  think  yov  must  own 
it  is  true. 

(Joscelyn:  I  won't  take  it!  The  story  is  no/ true!  The 
storjf  is  not  ended!  Finish  it  at  once!  None  of  the  others 
ended  like  this. 

Martin:    The  others  weren't  true. 

Joscelyn:  I  don't  care.  You  are  to  say  what  happened 
to  the  Gorgons. 

Joyce:    And  to  the  Squire. 

Jennifer:    And  to  the  Princess. 

Jessica:    And  what  she  looked  like. 

Jane:     And  what  happened  to  the  King. 

"Please,  Martin,"  said  little  Joan,  "please  don't  let  the  story 
come  to  an  end  before  we  know  what  happened  to  the  Wan- 
derer." 

"I'm  tired  of  telling  stories,"  said  Martin,  "and  I'll  never 
tell  another  as  long  as  I  live.  But  I  suppose  I  must  add  the 
trimmings  to  this  one,  or  I  shall  get  no  peace.") 

All  these  things,  dear  maidens,  are  very  quickly  told,  ex- 
cept whatthe  Princess  looked  like,  for  that  is  impossible.  No 
man  ever  knew.  He  never  got  further  than  her  eyes,  and 
then  he  was  drowned.  But  what  does  it  matter  how  she 
looked  ?  She  died  a  thousand  years  ago  of  a  broken  heart.  And 
her  Squire,  hearing  of  her  death,  died  too,  a  thousand  leagues 
away.  And  the  King  her  father  expired  of  remorse,  and  his 
country  went  to  rack  and  ruin.  And  the  five  kind  Gorgons  had 
to  pay  the  penalty  of  their  regained  humanity,  and  wilted  into 
their  maiden  graves.  Only  the  Sixth  Gorgon  lived  on  for 
ever  and  ever.  I  dare  not  think  of  her  solitary  eternity.  But 
as  for  the  Wanderer,  he  is  of  no  importance.  A  little  while  he 
still  went  wandering,  singing  these  lovers'  sorrows  to  the  world, 
and  what  became  of  him  I  never  knew. 

That's  the  end. 

And  now,  dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  let  me  lace  up  your  shoe. 

(Joxelyn  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  out  cry- 
ing.) 


POSTLUDE 
PART  I 

THERE  was  consternation  in  the  Apple-Orchard. 
All  the  milkmaids  came  tumbling  from  their  perches 
to  run  and  comfort  their  weeping  comrade.  And  as 
they  passed  Martin,  Joyce  cried,  "It's  a  shame!"  and  Jennifer 
murmured  "How  could  you?"  and  Jessica  exclaimed  "You 
brute!"  and  Jane  said  "I'm  surprised  at  you!"  and  even  little 
Joan  shook  her  head  at  him,  and,  while  all  the  others  fondled 
Joscclyn,  and  petted  and  consoled  her,  took  her  hand  and  held 
it  very  tight.  But  with  her  other  hand  she  took  Martin's 
and  held  it  just  as  tight,  and  looked  a  little  anxious,  with  tears 
in  her  blue  eyes.  Yet  she  looked  a  little  smiling  too.  And 
there  were  tears  also  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  milkmaids,  because 
the  story  had  ended  so  badly,  and  because  they  did  not  in  the 
least  know  what  was  going  to  happen,  and  because  a  man  had 
made  one  of  them  cry.  And  Martin  suddenly  realized  that  all 
these  girls  were  against  him  as  much  as  though  it  were  six 
months  ago.  And  he  swung  his  feet  and  looked  as  though  he 
didn't  care,  so  that  Joan  knew  he  was  feeling  rather  sheepish 
inside,  and  held  his  hand  a  litt'e  tighter. 

Then  Joscelyn,  who  had  the  loveliest  brown,  as  Joan  had  the 
loveliest  blue,  eyes  in  England,  lifted  her  young  head  and  looked 
at  Martin  so  defiantly  through  her  tears  that  he  knew  she  had 
given  up  the  game  at  last;  and  he  pressed  Joan's  hand  for  all  he 
was  worth,  and  began  to  look  ashamed  of  himself,  so  that  Joan 
knew  he  had  stopped  feeling  sheepish  in  the  least.  And  Josce- 
lyn, in  a  voice  that  shook  like  birch-leaves,  said,  "I  don't  want 
it  to  end  like  that." 

Martix:  Dear  Mistress  Joscelyn,  is  it  my  fault?  I  prom- 
ised you  the  truth,  and  with  your  help  I  have  told  it. 

Joscelyn:  How  dare  you  say  it's  with  my  help?  If  I  had 
my  way — ! 

Martin:  You  shall  have  it.  We  will  leave  the  end  of  the 
story  in  your  hands. 

243 


244    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Joscelyn:     I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  it! 

Martin  :    Then  I'm  afraid  it's  your  fault. 

Joscelyn:    That's  what  a  man  always  says! 

Martin:     Did  he? 

Joscelyn  :    Yes,  he  did !  he  said  it  was  Eve's  fault. 

Martin:     So  it  was. 

Joscelyn  :    How  dare  you ! 

Martin:  He  said  nothing  but  the  truth.  And  what  did 
you  say? 

Joscelyn  :    I  said  it  was  Adam's  fault. 

Martin  :    So  it  was.     You  said  nothing  but  the  truth. 

Joscelyn:    How  could  it  be  two  people's  fault? 

Martin:  How  could  it  be  anything  else?  Oh,  Joscelyn! 
there  are  two  things  in  this  world  that  one  person  alone  cannot 
bring  to  perfection.  And  one  of  them  is  a  fault.  It  takes  two 
people  to  make  a  perfect  fault.  Eve  tempted  Adam ;  and  Adam 
was  jolly  glad  to  get  tempted  if  he  was  half  as  sensible  as  he 
ought  to  have  been.  And  Eve  knew  it.  And  Adam  let  her 
know  it.  And  if  after  that  she  had  not  tempted  him  he  would 
never  have  forgiven  her.  And  if  he  had  not  succumbed  to  her 
temptation  after  he  had  let  her  know  it,  she  would  never  have 
forgiven  him.  When  it  came  to  fault-making  they  understood 
each  other  perfectly.  And  between  them  they  made  the  most 
perfect  fault  in  the  world. 

Joscelyn  {after  a  very  long  pause)  :  You  said  there  were 
two  things. 

Martin:    Two  things? 

Joscelyn:  That  one  person  alone  can't  bring  to  perfec- 
tion. 

Martin:    Did  I? 

Joscelyn:  What  is  the  other  thing? 

Martin:    Love.    Isn't  it? 

Joscelyn:     How  dare  you  ask  me? 

Martin  :  I  dare  ask  more  than  that.  Joscelyn,  how  old  are 
you? 

Joscelyn:    I  sha'n't  tell  you. 

Martin  :  Joscelyn,  you  are  the  tallest  of  all  the  milkmaids, 
but  you  can't  help  that.     How  old  are  you? 

Joscelyn:    Mind  your  own  business. 

Martin:  Joscelyn,  the  first  three  times  I  saw  you,  you  had 
your  hair  down  your  back.  But  ever  since  I  told  you  m.y  first 
story  you  have  done  it  up,  like  beautiful  dark  flowers,  on  each 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    245 

side  of  your  head.  And  it  is  my  belief  that  you  have  no  busi- 
ness to  have  it  up  at  all. 

JoscELYN  (very  angrily)  :  How  dare  you!  Of  course  I 
have !    Am  I  not  nearly  sixteen  ? 

Martin  :    Nearly  ? 

JoscELYN :    Well,  next  June. 

Martin:  Oh,  Hebe!  it's  worse  than  I  thought.  How  dare 
I?  You  whipper-snapper!  How  dare  you  have  us  all  under 
your  thumb?  How  dare  you  play  the  Gorgon  to  Gillian? 
How  dare  you  cry  your  eyes  out  because  my  lovers  had  an  un- 
happy ending?  Go  back  to  your  dolls'-house!  What  does  six- 
teen next  June  know  about  Adam?  What  does  sixteen  next 
June  know  about  love? 

JoscELYN  :    Everything!  how  dare  you?  everything! 

Martin  :  Am  I  to  believe  you  ?  Then  by  all  you  know,  you 
baby,  give  me  the  sixth  key  of  the  Well-House! 

And  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  five  keys  he  already  had,  and 
held  out  his  hand  for  the  last  one.  Joscelyn's  eyes  grew  bigger 
and  bigger,  and  the  doubt  that  had  troubled  her  all  day  became 
a  certainty  as  she  looked  from  the  keys  to  her  comrades,  who  all 
got  very  red  and  hung  their  heads. 

"Why  did  you  give  them  up?"  demanded  Joscelyn. 

"Because,"  Martin  answered  for  them,  "they  know  ever>'- 
thing  about  love.  But  then  they  are  all  more  than  sixteen  years 
of  age,  and  capable  of  making  the  right  sort  of  ending  which 
is  so  impossible  to  children  like  you  and  me." 

Then  Joscelyn  looked  as  old  as  she  could  and  said,  "Not  so 
impossible,  Master  Pippin,  if — if — " 

But  all  of  a  sudden  she  began  to  laugh.  It  was  the  first  time 
Martin  had  ever  heard  her  laugh,  or  her  comrades  for  six 
months.  Their  faces  cleared  like  magic,  and  they  all  clapped 
their  hands  and  ran  away.  And  Martin  got  down  from  his 
bough,  because  when  Joscelyn  laughed  she  didn't  look  more  than 
fourteen. 

"If  what,  Joscelyn?"  he  said. 

"If  you'd  stolen  the  right  shoe-string,  Martin,"  said  she. 
And  she  stuck  out  her  right  foot  with  its  neatly-laced  yellow 
slipper.  Then  Martin  knelt  down,  and  instead  of  lacing  the 
left  shoe  unlaced  the  right  one,  and  inside  the  yellow  slipper 
found  the  sixth  key  just  under  the  instep.  "Is  that  the  right 
ending?"  said  Joscelyn.    And  Martin  held  the  little  foot  in  his 


246     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

hands  rubbing  it  gently,  and  said  compassionately,  "It  must  have 
been  dreadfully  uncomfortable." 

"It  was  sometimes,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"Didn't  it  hurt?"  asked  Martin,  beginning  to  lace  up  her 
shoes  for  her. 

"Now  and  then,"  said  Joscelyn. 

"It  was  an  awfully  kiddish  place  to  hide  it  in,"  said  Martin 
finishing,  and  as  he  looked  up  Joscelyn  laughed  again,  rubbing 
her  tear-stained  cheeks  with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  for  all 
the  great  growing  girl  that  she  was  looked  no  more  than  twelve. 
So  he  slid  under  the  swing  and  stood  up  behind  her  and  kissed 
her  on  the  back  of  the  neck  where  babies  are  kissed. 

Then  all  the  milkmaids  came  back  again. 


PART  II 

TO  every  girl  Martin  handed  her  key.  "This  is  your 
business,"  said  he.  And  first  Joan,  and  next  Joyce,  and 
then  Jennifer,  and  then  Jessica,  and  then  Jane,  and  last 
of  all  Joscelyn,  put  her  key  into  its  lock  and  turned.  And  not 
one  of  the  keys  would  turn.  They  bit  their  lips  and  held  their 
breath,  and  turned  and  turned  in  vain. 

"This  is  dreadful,"  said  Martin.  "Are  you  sure  the  keys 
are  in  the  right  keyholes?" 

"They  all  fit,"  said  little  Joan. 

"Let  me  try,"  said  Martin.  And  he  tried,  one  after  another, 
and  then  tried  each  key  singly  in  each  lock,  but  without  result. 
Jane  said,  "1  expect  they've  gone  rusty,"  and  Jessica  said,  "That 
must  be  it,"  and  Jennifer  turned  pale  and  said,  "Then  Gillian 
can  never  get  out  of  the  Well-House  or  we  out  of  the  orchard." 
And  Martin  sat  down  in  the  swing  and  thought  and  thought. 
As  he  thought  he  began  to  swing  a  little,  and  then  a  little  more, 
and  suddenly  he  cried  "Push  me!"  and  the  six  girls  came  be- 
hind him  and  pushed  with  all  their  strength.  Up  he  went  with 
his  legs  pointed  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  back  he  flew  and 
up  again.  The  third  time  the  swing  flew  clean  over  the  Well- 
House,  and  as  true  as  a  diving  gannet  Martin  dropped  from 
mid-air  into  the  little  court,  and  stood  face  to  face  with  Gillian. 


247 


PART  III 

SHE  was  not  weeping.  She  was  bathed  in  blushes  and 
laughter.  She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  and  Martin 
took  them.  She  had  golden  hair  of  lights  and  shadows 
like  a  wheatfield  that  fell  in  two  thick  plaits  over  her  white 
gown,  and  she  had  gray  eyes  where  smiles  met  you  like  an  in- 
vitation, but  you  had  to  learn  later  that  they  were  really  a  little 
guard  set  between  you  and  her  inward  tenderness,  and  that  her 
gayety,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  led  you  into  the  flowery  by-ways 
of  her  spirit  where  fairies  played,  but  not  to  the  heart  of  jt 
where  angels  dwelled.  Few  succeeded  in  surprising  her  behind 
her  bright  shield,  but  sometimes  when  she  wasn't  thinking  it 
fell  aside,  and  v/hat  men  saw  then  took  their  breath  from  them, 
for  it  was  as  though  they  were  falling  through  endless  wells  of 
infinite  sweetness.  And  afterwards  they  could  have  told  you 
nothing  further  of  her  loveliness;  when  they  got  as  far  as  her 
eyes  they  were  drowned.  Her  features,  the  curves  of  her  cheeks 
and  lips  and  chin  and  delicate  nostrils,  were  as  finely-turned  as 
the  edge  of  a  wild-rose  petal,  and  her  skin  had  the  freshness  of 
dew.  The  sight  of  her  brought  the  same  sense  of  delight  as 
the  sight  of  a  meadow  of  cowslips.  As  sweet  and  sunny  a 
scent  breathed  out  from  her  beauty. 

But  all  this  Martin  only  felt  without  seeing,  for  he  was 
drowned.  Gillian,  I  suppose,  wasn't  thinking.  So  they  held 
each  other's  hands  and  looked  at  each  other. 

Presently  Martin  said,  "It's  time  now,  Gillian,  and  you  can 
go." 

]|Yes,  Martin,"  said  Gillian.     "Plow  shall  I  go?" 

"As  I  came,"  said  he. 

"Before  I  go,"  said  she,  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question. 
You  have  asked  my  friends  a  lot  of  questions  these  six  nights, 
which  they  have  answered  frankly,  and  you  have  twisted  their 
answers  round  your  little  finger.  Now  you  must  answer  my 
question  as  frankly." 

"And  what  will  you  do?"  asked  Martin. 

"I  won't  twist  your  answer,"  said  Gillian  gently.     "I'll  take 

24S 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    249 

it  for  what  it  is  worth.  You  have  been  laughing  up  j^our  sleeve 
a  little  at  my  friends  because,  having  a  quarrel  with  men,  they 
were  sworn  to  live  single.  But  you  live  single  too.  Tell  me, 
if  you  please,  what  is  your  quarrel  with  girls?" 

Martin  dropped  her  hands  until  he  held  each  by  the  little 
finger  only,  and  then  he  answered,  "That  they  are  so  much  too 
good  for  us,  Gillian." 

"Thank  you,  Martin,"  said  Gillian,  taking  her  hands  away. 
"And  now  please  ask  them  to  send  over  the  swing,  for  it  is 
time  for  me  to  go  to  Adversane."  And  as  she  spoke  the  light 
played  over  her  eyes  again  and  floated  him  up  to  the  surface 
of  things  where  he  could  swim  without  drowning.  He  saw 
now  the  flowers  of  her  loveliness,  but  no  longer  the  deeps  of 
those  gray  pools  where  the  light  shimmered  between  herself  and 
him.  So  he  turned  and  climbed  to  the  pent  roof  of  the  Well- 
House,  and  looked  towards  the  group  of  shadow^s  clustered  un- 
der the  apple-tree  around  _the  swing;  and  they  understood  and 
launched  it  through  the  air,  and  he  caught  it  as  it  came.  And 
Gillian  in  a  moment  was  up  beside  him. 

"Are  you  ready?"  said  Martin. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  getting  on  the  swing,  "thank  you.  And 
thank  you  for  everything.  Thank  you  for  coming  three  times 
this  year.  Thank  you  for  the  stories.  Thank  you  for  giving 
their  happiness  again  to  my  darling  friends.  Thank  you  for  all 
the  songs.     Thank  you  for  drying  my  tears." 

"Are  thev  all  dried?"  said  Martin. 

"All,"  said  Gillian. 

"If  they  w^ere  not,"  said  he,  "you  shall  find  Herb-Robert 
growing  along  the  roadside,  and  the  Herbman  himself  in  Ad- 
versane." 

And  holding  the  swing  fast  as  he  sat  on  the  roof,  Martin 
sang  her  his  last  song,  not  very  loud,  but  so  clearly  that  the 
shadows  under  the  apple-tree  heard  every  note  and  syllable. 

Good  morroiv,  good  morrow,  dear  Herbman  Robert! 
Good  morroiv,  siveei  sir,  good  morroiv! 
Oh,  sell  me  a  herb,  good  Robert,  good  Robert, 
To  cure  a  young  maid  of  her  sorroiv. 

And  hath  her  sorroiu  a  name,  siveet  sir? 

No   lovelier  name  or  purer. 

With  its  root  in  her  heart  and  its  flo<wer  in  her  eyes, 

Yet  sell  me  a  herb  shall  cure  her. 


250    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

Oh,  touch  laith  this  rosy  herb  of  spring 
Both  heart  and  eyes  when  she's  sleeping. 
And  joy  ivill  come  out  of  her  sorroimng, 
And  Iqughter  out  of  her  weeping. 

"Good-by,  Martin." 

"Good-by,  Gillian." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  lot  more  questions,  Martin." 

"OfE  you  go!"  cried  he.  And  let  the  swing  fly.  Back  it 
came. 

"Martin!  why  didn't—" 

"Jump  when  you're  clear!"  called  Martin.    But  back  it  came. 

"Why  didn't  the  young  Squire  in  the  story — " 

"Jump  this  time!"    And  back  it  came. 

" — come  to  fetch  her  himself,  Martin?" 

"Jump!"  shouted  Martin;  and  shut  his  eyes  and  put  his 
hands  over  his  ears.  But  it  was  no  use;  again  and  again  he 
felt  the  rush  of  air,  and  questions  falling  through  it  like  shoot- 
ing-stars about  his  head. 

"Martin!  what  was  the  name  on  the  eighth  floret  of  grass?" 

"Martin!  what  was  the  letter  you  threw  with  the  Lady- 
peel?" 

"Martin!  why  is  my  silver  ring  all  chased  with  little  ap- 
ples?" 

"Martin!  do  you — do  you — do  you — ?" 

"Shall  I  never  be  rid  of  this  swing?"  cried  Martin.  "Jump, 
you  nuisance,  jump  when  I  tell  you!" 

And  she  jumped,  and  was  caught  and  kissed  among  the 
shadows. 


"Gill 
"Gill 
"Gill 
"Gill 
"Gill 


an!" 
an!" 
an!" 
an!" 


lan; 

"Dear  Gillian!" 
s^   And  then  like  a  golden  wave  and  she  the  foam,  they  bore  her 
I  over  the  moonlit  grass  to  the  green  wicket,  and  they  threw  it 
I  open,  and  she  went  like  a  skipping  stone  across  the  duckpond 
and  over  the  fields  to  Adversane. 
^  •     When  she  had  vanished  Martin  slid  down  the  roof,  walked 
^     across  to  the  coping,  put  one  leg  over,  and  stepped  out  of  the 
Well-House. 


PART  IV 

THE  six  milkmaids  were  waiting  for  him  in  the  apple-tree 
— no ;  Joscelyn  was  in  the  swing. 

"And  so,"  said  Martin,  sitting  down  on  the  bough, 
"on  the  sixth  night  the  sixth  Gorgon  also  became  a  maiden  as 
lovely  as  her  fellows,  and  gave  the  Wanderer  the  sixth  key  to 
the  Tower.  And  they  let  out  the  Princess  and  set  her  in  The 
Golden  Truant,  and  she  sailed  away  to  her  Squire  a  thousand 
leagues  over  the  water.  And  everj'body  lived  happily  ever 
after." 

"What  a  beautiful  story!"  said  Jane.  And  they  all  thought 
so  too. 

"I  knew  from  the  first,"  said  Joscelyn,  "that  it  would  have  a 
happy  ending." 

"And  so  did  I,"  said  Joyce. 

"And  I."   1  {  Jennifer, 

;;AndI.;;   \   3aid    i  J--' 
And  I.      I  I  Jane  and 

"And  I."  J  [  little  Joan. 

"The  verdict  is  passed,"  said  Martin.  "And  look!  over  our 
heads  hangs  the  moon,  as  round  and  beautiful  as  a  penny  bal- 
loon, with  an  eye  as  wide  awake  as  a  child's  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing. If  she  will  not  go  to  sleep  in  heaven  to-night,  why  on  earth 
should  we?    Let's  have  a  party!" 

The  girls  looked  at  one  another  in  amazement  and  delight, 
"A  party  ?    Oh !"  cried  they.    "But  who  will  give  it  ?" 

"I  will,"  said  Martin. 

"And  who  will  come  to  it?" 

"Whoever  luck  sends  us,"  said  Martin.  "But  we'll  begin 
with  ourselves.  Joan  and  Joyce  and  Jennifer  and  Jessica  and 
Jane  and  Joscelyn,  will  you  come  to  my  party  in  the  Apple- 
Orchard?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Martin!"  cried  they.  And  ran  away  to 
change.  But  the  only  change  possible  was  to  take  the  kerchiefs 
^5  their  white  necks,  and  the  shoes  and  stockmgs  oif  their  little 
Xeet,  and  let  down  their  pretty  hair.     So  they  did  these  things, 

zsx 


252     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

and  made  wreaths  for  one  another,  and  posies  for  their  yellow 
dresses.  And  it  is  time  for  you  to  know  that  Jennifer's  dress 
was  primrose  and  Jane's  cowslip  yellow,  and  that  Joyce  looked 
like  buttercups  and  Jessica  like  marigolds;  and  Joscelyn's  was 
the  glory  of  the  kingcups  that  rise  like  magic  golden  isles  above 
the  Amberley  floods  in  May.  But  little  Joan  had  not  been  able 
to  decide  between  the  two  yellows  that  go  to  make  wild  daffo- 
dils, so  she  had  them  both.  Under  their  flowerlike  skirts  their 
white  ankles  and  rosy  heels  moved  as  lightly  as  windflowers 
swaying  in  the  grass.  And  just  when  they  were  ready  they 
heard  Martin  Pippin's  lute  under  the  apple-tree,  so  they  came 
to  the  party  dancing.  Round  and  round  the  tree  they  danced 
in  the  moonlight  till  they  were  out  of  breath.  But  when  they 
could  dance  no  more  they  stood  stock  still  and  stared  without 
speaking;  for  spread  under  the  trees  was  such  a  feast  as  they 
had  not  seen  for  months  and  months. 

In  the  middle  was  a  great  heap  of  apples,  red  and  brown  and 
green  and  gold ;  but  besides  these  there  was  a  dish  of  roasted 
apples  and  another  of  apple  dumplings,  and  between  them  a 
bowl  of  brown  sugar  and  a  full  pitcher  of  cream.  The  cream 
had  spilled,  and  you  could  see  where  Martin  had  run  his  finger 
up  the  round  of  the  pitcher  to  its  lip,  where  one  drip  lingered 
still.  Near  these  there  was  a  plum-cake  of  the  sort  our  gran- 
nies make.  It  is  of  these  cakes  we  say  that  twenty  men  could 
not  put  their  arms  round  them.  There  were  nuts  in  it  too,  and 
spices.  And  there  was  a  big  basin  of  curds  and  whey,  and  a 
bigger  one  of  fruit  salad,  and  another  of  custard ;  and  plates  of 
jam  tarts  and  lemon  cheesecakes  and  cheesestraws  and  maca- 
roons; and  gingerbread  in  cakes  and  also  in  figures  of  girls  and 
boys  with  caraway  comfits  for  eyes,  and  a  unicorn  and  a  lion 
with  gilded  horn  and  crown ;  and  pots  of  honey  and  quince  jelly 
and  treacle;  and  mushrooms  and  pickled  walnuts  and  green 
sala(Js.  Even  Mr.  Ringdaly  did  not  provide  a  bigger  feast 
when  he  married  Mrs.  Ringdaly.  For  there  were  also  all  the 
best  sorts  of  sweets  in  the  world:  sugar-candy  on  a  string,  and 
twisted  barley-sticks,  and  bulls'-eyes,  and  peardrops,  and  licorice 
shoe-strings,  and  Turkish  Delight,  and  pink  and  white  sugar 
mice;  besides  these  there  was  sherbet,  not  to  drink  of  course, 
but  to  dip  your  finger  in.  There  were  a  good  many  other 
things,  but  these  were  what  the  milkmaids  took  in  at  a  glance. 

"Oh!"  cried  six  voices  at  once,  "Where  did  they  come 
iromj" 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    253 

"Through  the  gap,"  said  Martin. 

"But  who  brought  them?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  said  Martin. 

At  first  the  girls  were  rather  shy — ^you  can't  help  that  at  par- 
ties. But  as  they  ate  (and  you  know  what  each  ate  first)  they 
got  more  and  more  at  their  ease,  and  by  the  time  they  were 
licking  their  sticky  fingers  were  in  the  mood  for  any  game.  So 
they  played  all  the  best  games  there  are,  such  as  "Cobbler! 
Cobbler!"  (Joscelyn's  shoe),  and  Hunt  the  Thimble  (Jane's 
thimble),  and  Mulberry  Bush,  and  Oranges  and  Lemons,  and 
Nuts  in  May.  And  in  Nuts  in  May  Martin  insisted  on  being 
a  side  all  by  himself,  and  one  after  another  he  fetched  each  girl 
away  from  her  side  to  his.  And  Joan  came  like  a  bird,  and 
Joyce  pretended  to  struggle,  and  Jennifer  had  no  fight  in  her 
at  all,  and  Jessica  really  tried,  and  Jane  didn't  like  it  because 
it  was  undignified  and  so  rough.  But  when  Joscelyn's  turn 
came  to  be  fetched  as  she  stood  all  alone  on  her  side  deserted 
by  her  supporters,  she  put  her  hands  behind  her  back,  and 
jumped  over  the  handkerchief  of  her  own  accord,  and  walked 
up  to  Martin  and  said,  "All  right,  you've  won."  For  when  it 
comes  to  fetching  away  it  is  a  game  that  boys  are  better  at  than 
girls. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Martin,  "it's  time  for  Hide-and-Seek." 
And  he  sat  down  on  the  swing  and  shut  his  eyes. 

At  the  same  moment  the  moon  went  behind  a  cloud. 

And  as  he  waited  a  light  drop  fell  on  Martin's  cheek,  and 
another,  and  another,  like  the  silent  weeping  of  a  girl;  so  that 
he  couldn't  help  opening  his  eyes  quickly  and  looking  by  in- 
stinct toward  the  empty  Well-House.  It  was  still  empty,  for 
wherever  the  girls  had  hidden  themselves,  it  was  not  there. 

Then  through  the  shadowed  raining  orchard  a  low  voice 
called  "Cuckoo!"  and  "Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!"  called  another. 
And  softly,  clearly,  laughingly,  mockingly,  defiantly,  teasingly, 
sweetly,  caressingly,  "Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!"  they  called 
on  every  side.  Martin  stood  up  and  stole  among  the  trees.  At 
first  he  went  quietly,  but  soon  he  ran  and  darted.  And  never 
a  girl  could  he  find.  For  this  after  all  is  the  game  that  girls 
are  better  at  than  boys,  and  when  it  comes  to  hiding  if  they  will 
not  be  found  they  will  not.  And  if  they  will  they  will.  But 
their  will  was  not  for  Martin  Pippin.  Through  the  pattering 
moonless  orchard  he  hunted  them  in  vain  ;  and  the  place  was  full 
of  slipping  shadows  and  whispers.     And  every  now  and  then 


254    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

those  cuckooing  milkmaids  called  him,  sometimes  at  a  distance, 
sometimes  at  his  very  ear.    But  he  could  not  catch  a  single  one. 

And  now  it  seemed  to  Martin  that  there  were  more  of  these 
elusive  shadows  than  he  could  have  believed,  and  whisperings 
that  needed  accounting  for. 

For  once  he  heard  somebody  whisper,  "Oh,  you  were  right! 
the  world  is  flat — for  six  months  it's  been  as  flat  as  a  pancake!" 
And  a  second  voice  whispered,  "Then  I  was  wrong!  for  pan- 
cakes are  round."  And  Martin  said  to  himself,  "That's  Joyce!" 
but  the  first  voice  he  couldn't  recognize.  And  then  followed  a 
sound  that  was  not  exactly  a  whisper,  yet  not  exactly  unlike 
one;  and  Martin  darted  towards  it,  but  touched  only  air. 

And  again  he  heard  a  mysterious  voice  whisper,  "How  could 
you  keep  yourself  so  secret  all  these  months?  I  couldn't  have. 
However  can  girls  keep  secrets  so  long?"  And  the  answer  was, 
"They  can't  keep  them  a  single  instant  if  you  come  and  ask 
them — but  you  didn't  come!"  "What  a  fool  I  was!"  whis- 
pered the  first  voice,  but  whose  Martin  could  not  for  the  life 
of  him  imagine.  Yet  he  was  sure  that  the  other  was  Jennifer's. 
And  again  he  heard  that  misleading  sound  which  seemed  to  be 
something,  yet,  when  he  sought  it,  was  nothing. 

And  now  he  heard  another  unknown  whisperer  say,  "You 
should  have  seen  my  drills  in  the  wheatfield  last  April!  How 
the  drill  did  wobble!  Why,  I  was  that  upset,  any  girl  could 
have  thrown  straighter  than  I  drilled  that  wheat."  And  a  sec- 
ond whisperer  replied,  "It  must  have  been  a  sight,  then,  for  girls 
throw  crookeder  than  swallows  fly!"  This  was  surely  Jessica; 
but  who  was  the  first  speaker  ? 

He  was  as  strange  to  Martin  as  another  one  who  whispered, 
"It  was  the  silence  got  on  my  nerves  most — it  was  having  no- 
body to  listen  to  of  an  evening.  Of  course  there  were  the  lads, 
but  they  never  talk  to  the  point."  "I  often  fear,"  whispered  a 
second  voice,  "that  I  talk  too  much  at  random."  "Good  Lord! 
you  couldn't,  if  you  talked  for  ever!"  whispered  the  first. 
"Jane!"  decided  Martin,  "but  who  else?"  Each  of  these  two 
ca«es  ended  as  the  first  two  had  ended;  and  for  Martin  in  as 
little  result. 

He  hastened  to  another  part  of  the  orchard  where  the  whis- 
pers were  falling  fast  and  fierce.  "It  was  Adam's  fault  after 
all!"  "No,  I've  found  out  that  it  was  Eve's  fault!"  "But  I've 
been  looking  it  up."  "And  I've  been  thinking  it  over."  "Rub- 
bish f  it  zi/aj  Adam's  fault."    "It  was  «o/ Adam's  fault.    What 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    255 

can  a  stupid  little  boy  know  about  it?"  "I'm  a  month  older  than 
you  are."  "I  don't  care  if  you  are.  It  was  Eve's  fault." 
"Well,  don't  make  a  fuss  if  it  was."  "Wasn't  it?"  "Stuff!" 
"Wasn't  it?"  "Oh,  all  right,  if  you  like,  it  was  Eve's  fault." 
"Here's  an  apple  for  you,"  said  Joscelyn  quite  distinctly.  "Oh, 
ripping!  but  I'd  rather  have  a — "  "Sh-h!  run!"  ■  Martin  was 
just  too  late.     "Rather  have  a  what?"  said  Martin  to  himself. 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  lonely.  His  hair  was  wet  with 
rain.  He  hadn't  seen  a  milkmaid  for  an  hour.  He  prowled 
low  in  the  grass  hoping  to  catch  one  unawares.  In  the  swing 
he  saw  a  shadow — or  was  it  two  shadows?  It  looked  like  one. 
And  yet — 

One  half  of  the  shadow  whispered,  "Do  you  like  my  new 
corduroys?"  "Ever  so  much,"  whispered  the  other  half.  "I'm 
rather  bucked  about  them  myself,"  whispered  the  first  half,  "or 
ought  I  to  say  about  itf"  "I  think  it's  them,"  said  the  second 
half.  The  first  half  reflected,  "It  might  be  either  one  thing  or 
two.  But  arithmetic's  a  nuisance — I  never  was  good  at  it." 
The  second  half  confessed,  "I  always  have  to  guess  at  it  my- 
self. I'm  only  really  sure  of  one  bit."  "Which  bit's  that?" 
whispered  the  first  half,  and  the  second  half  whispered,  "That 
one  and  one  make  two."  "Oh,  you  darling!  of  course  they 
don't,  and  never  did  and  never  will."  "Well,  I  don't  really 
mind,"  said  little  Joan.  And  then  there  was  a  pause  in  which 
the  two  shadows  were  certainly  one,  until  the  second  half  whis- 
pered, "Oh!  oh,  you've  shaved  it  off!"  And  this  delighted  the 
first  half  beyond  all  bounds;  because  even  in  the  circumstances 
it  was  clever  of  the  second  half  to  have  noticed  it. 

But  Martin  could  bear  no  more.  He  sprang  forward  crying 
"Joan!" — and  he  grasped  the  empty  swing.  And  round  the 
orchard  he  flew,  his  hands  before  him,  calling  now  "Joyce!" 
now  "Jane!"  now  "Jessica!"  "Jennifer!"  "Joscelyn!"  and 
again  "Joan !  Joan !  Joan !"  And  all  his  answer  was  rustlings 
and  shadows  and  whispers,  and  faint  laughter  like  far-away 
echoes,  and  empty  air. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  light  rain  stopped  and  the  moon  came 
out  of  her  cloud.  And  Martin  found  himself  standing  beside 
the  Well-House,  and  nobody  near  him.  He  gazed  all  around 
at  the  familiar  things,  the  apple-trees,  the  swing,  the  green 
wicket,  the  broken  feast  in  the  grass.  And  then  at  the  far  end 
of  the  orchard  he  saw  an  unfamiliar  thing.  It  was  a  double 
ladder,  arched  over  the  hawthorn.     And  up  the  ladder,  like  a 


256    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

golden  shaft  of  the  moon,  went  six  quick  girls,  and  ahead  of 
each  her  lad.*  And  on  the  topmost  rung  each  took  his  milk- 
maid by  the  hand  and  vanished  over  the  hedge. 

Martin  Pippin  was  left  alone  in  the  Apple-Orchard, 

*  It  IS  not  important,  but  their  names  were  Michael,  Tom,  Oliver, 
John,  Henry,  and  Charles.  And  Michael  had  dark  hair  and  light 
lashes,  and  Tom  freckles  and  a  snub-nose,  and  Oliver  a  mole  on 
his  left  cheek,  and  John  fine  red-gold  hair  on  his  bronzed  skin; 
and  Henry  was  merely  the  Odd-Job  Boy  whose  voice  was  breaking, 
so  he  imagined  that  it  was  he  alone  who  ran  the  farm.  But  Charles 
was  a  dear.  He  had  a  tuft  of  white  hair  at  the  back  of  his  dark 
head,  like  the  cotton-tail  of  a  rabbit,  and  as  well  as  corduroy 
breeches  he  wore  a  rabbit-skin  waistcoat,  and  he  was  a  great 
nuisance  to  gamekeepers,  who  called  him  a  poacher;  whereas  all 
he  did  was  to  let  the  rabbits  out  of  the  snares  when  it  was  kind  to, 
and  destroy  the  snares.  And  he  used  to  bring  "bunny-rabbits" 
which  other  people  call  snapdragons)  of  the  loveliest  colors  to  plant 
in  the  little  garden  known  as  Joan's  Corner.  I  should  like  to  tell 
you  more  about  Charles  (but  there  isn't  time)  because  I  am  fond  of 
him.     If  I  hadn't  been  I  shouldn't  have  let  him  have  Joan. 


EPILOGUE 

AT  cockcrow  came  the  call  which  in  that  orchard  was  now 
as  familiar  as  the  rooster's. 
"Maids!     Maids!     Maids!" 

Martin  Pippin  was  leaning  over  the  green  wicket  throwing 
jam  tarts  to  the  ducks.  Because  in  the  Well-House  Gillian 
had  not  left  so  much  as  a  crumb.  But  when  he  heard  Old  Gill- 
man's  voice,  he  flicked  a  bull's-eye  at  the  drake,  getting  it  very 
accurately  on  the  bill,  and  walked  across  to  the  gap. 

"Good  morning,  master,"  said  Martin  cheerfully.  "Pray 
how  does  Lemon,  Joscelyn's  Sussex,  fare?" 

Old  Gillman  put  down  his  loaves  with  great  deliberation, 
and  spent  a  few  minutes  taking  Martin  in.  Then  he  answered, 
"There's  scant  milk  to  a  Sussex,  and  alius  will  be.  And  if  there 
was  not,  there'd  be  none  to  Joscelyn's  Lemon.  And  if  there 
was,  it  would  take  more  than  Henry  to  draw  it.  And  so  that's 
you,  is  it?" 

"That's  me,"  said  Martin  Pippin. 

"Well,"  said  Old  Gillman,  "I've  spent  the  best  of  six  morn- 
ings trying  not  to  see  ye.  And  has  my  daughter  taken  the 
right  road  yet?" 

"Yes,  master,"  said  Martin,  "she  has  taken  the  road  to  Ad- 
versane." 

"Which  she's  spent  the  best  of  six  months  trying  not  to  see," 
said  Old  Gillman.  "Women's  a  nuisance.  Alius  for  taking 
the  long  cut  round." 

"I've  known  many  a  short  cut,"  said  Martin,  "to  end  in  a 
blind  alley." 

"Well,  well,  so  long  as  they  gets  there,"  grunted  Gillman. 
"And  what's  this  here?" 

"A  pair  of  steps,"  said  Martin. 

"What  for?"  said  Gillman. 

"Milkmaids  and  milkmen,"  said  Martin. 

"So  they  maids  have  cut  too,  have  they?"  * 

"It  was  a  full  moon,  you  see." 

"I  dessay.  But  if  they'd  gone  by  the  stile  they  could  have 
hopped  it  in  the  dark  six  months  agone,"  said  Old  Gillman. 
And  he  got  over  the  stile,  which  was  the  other  way  into  the 
orchard  and  has  not  been  mentioned  till  now,  and  came  and 
clapped  Martin  on  the  shoulder. 

857 


258     MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Women's  more  trouble,"  said  he,  "than  they're  worth." 

"They're  plenty  of  trouble,"  said  Martin;  "I've  never  dis- 
covered yet  what  they're  worth." 

"We'll  not  talk  of  'em  more.  Come  up  to  the  house  for  a 
drink,  boy,"  said  Old  Gillman. 

Martin  said  pleasantly,  "You  can  drink  milk  now,  master, 
to  your  heart's  content.  Or  even  water."  And  he  walked  over 
to  the  Well-House,  and  pointed  invitingly  to  the  bucket. 

Old  Gillman  followed  him  with  one  eye  open.  "It's  too  late 
for  that,  boy.  When  you've  turned  toper  for  six  months,  after 
sixty  sober  years,  it'll  take  you  another  six  to  drop  the  habit. 
That's  what  these  daughters  do  for  their  dads.  But  we'll  not 
talk  of  'em."  He  stood  beside  Martin  and  stared  down  at  the 
padlock.     "How  did  the  pretty  go?" 

"In  the  swing,  like  a  swift." 

"Why  not  through  the  gate  like  a  gal?" 

"The  keys  wouldn't  turn." 

"WhicRway?" 

"The  right  way." 

"You  should  ha'  tried  'em  the  wrong  way,  boy." 

"That  would  have  locked  it,"  said  Martin. 

"Azactly,"  said  Old  Gillman;  and  slipped  the  padlock  from 
the  staple  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.     "Come  along  up  now." 

Martin  followed  him  through  the  orchard  and  the  paddock 
and  the  garden  and  the  farmyard  to  the  house.  He  noticed 
that  everything  was  in  the  pink  of  condition.  But  as  he  passed 
the  stables  he  heard  the  cows  lowing  badly. 

The  farm-kitchen  was  a  big  one.  It  had  all  the  things  that 
go  to  make  the  best  farm-kitchens:  such  as  red  bricks  and 
heavy  smoke-blackened  beams,  and  a  deep  hearth  with  a  great 
fire  on  it  and  settles  inside,  from  which  one  could  look  up  the 
chimney-shaft  to  the  sky,  and  clay  pipes  and  spills  alongside, 
and  a  muUer  for  wine  or  beer ;  and  hams  and  sides  of  bacon  and 
strings  of  onions  and  bunches  of  herbs ;  much  pewter,  and  a  cop- 
per warming-pan,  and  brass  candlesticks,  and  a  grandfather 
clock;  a  cherrywood  dresser  and  wheelback  chairs  polished  with 
age;  and  a  great  scrubbed  oaken  table  to  seat  a  harvest-sup- 
per, planed  from  a  single  mighty  plank.  It  was  as  clean  as 
everything  else  in  that  good  room,  but  all  the  scrubbing  would 
not  efface  the  circular  stains  wherever  men  had  sat  and  drunk; 
and  that  was  all  the  way  round  and  in  the  middle.  There 
were  mugs  and  a  Toby  jug  upon  it  now.  Old  Gillman  filled 
two  of  the  mugs,  and  lifted  one  to  Martin,  and  Martin  echoed 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    259 

the  action  like  a  looking-glass.  And  they  toasted  each  other  in 
good  Audit  Ale. 

"Well,"  said  Old  Gillman  stuffing  his  pipe,  "it's  been  a  peace- 
ful time,  and  now  us  must  just  see  how  things  go." 

"They  look  shipshape  enough  at  the  moment,"  said  Martin. 

"Ah,"  said  Old  Gillman  shaking  his  head,  "that's  the  lads. 
They're  good  lads  when  you  let  'em  alone.  But  what  it'll  be 
now  they  maids  gets  meddling  again  us  can't  foretell.  It  were 
bad  enough  afore,  wi'  their  quarrelsomeness  and  their  shilly- 
shally.   It  sends  all  things  to  rack  and  ruin." 

"What  does?"  said  Martin. 

"This  here  love."  Old  Gillman  refilled  his  mug.  "We'll 
not  talk  of  it.  She  were  a  handy  gal  afore  Robin  began  un- 
making her  mind  along  of  his  own.  Lord!  why  can't  these 
young  things  be  plain  and  say  what  they  want,  and  get  it? 
Wasn't  I  plain  wi'  her  mother?" 

"Were  you?"  said  Martin. 

"Ah,  worse  luck!"  said  Gillman,  "and  me  a  happy  bachelor 
as  I  was.  What  did  I  want  wi'  a  minx  about  the  place?"  He 
filled  his  mug  again. 

"What  do  any  of  us?"  said  Martin.  "These  women  are 
the  deuce. 

"They  are,"  said  Gillman.     "We'll  not  talk  of  'em." 

"There  are  a  thousand  better  things  to  talk  of,"  agreed  Mar- 
tin.    "There  is  Sloe  Gin." 

Old  Gillman's  eye  brightened.  "Ah!"  said  Old  Gillman, 
and  puffed  at  his  pipe.  "Her  name,"  he  said,  "was  Juniper, 
but  as  oft  as  not  I'd  call  her  June,  for  she  was  like  that.  A 
rose  in  the  house,  boy.  Maybe  you  think  my  Jill  has  her  share 
of  looks?  She  has  her  mother's  leavings,  let  me  tell  ye.  So 
you  may  judge.  But  what's  this  Robin  to  dilly-dally  with  her 
daughter,  till  the  gal  can't  sleep  o'  nights  for  wondering  will 
he  speak  in  the  morning  or  will  he  be  mum?  And  so  she  be- 
comes worse  than  no  use  in  kitchen  and  dairy,  and  since  sick- 
ness is  catching  the  maids  follow  suit.  It's  all  off  and  on  wi' 
them  and  their  lads.  In  the  morning  they  will,  in  the  evening 
they  won't.  Ah,  'twas  a  tarrible  life.  And  all  along  o'  Robirt 
Rue.  Young  man,  the  farm,  I  tell  ye,  was  going  to  fair  rack 
and  ruin." 

"You  seem  to  have  found  a  remedy,"  said  Martin. 

"If  they  silly  maids  couldn't  make  up  their  minds,"  said  Old 
Gilhnan,  "there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  turn  'em  out  neck 
and  crop  till  they  learned  what  they  wanted.    And  Robin  into 


/ 

26o    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

the  bargain.  He's  no  better  than  a  maid  when  it  comes  to  tak- 
ing the  bull  by  the  horns.  Yet  that's  the  man's  part,  mark  ye. 
Don't  I  know?  Smockalley  she  come  from,  the  Rose  of  Smock- 
alley  they  called  her,  for  a  Rose  in  June  she  were.  There 
weren't  a  lass  to  match  her  south  of  Hagland  and  north  of 
Roundabout.  And  the  lads  would  ha'  died  for  her  from  Pick- 
etty  to  Chiltington.  But  'twas  a  Billingshurst  lad  got  her, 
d'ye  see?"    Old  Gillman  filled  his  mug. 

"How  did  that  come  about?"  asked  Martin,  filling  his. 

"All  along  o'  the  Murray  River." 

"What's  that!"  said  Martin  Pippin.  But  Old  Gillman 
thought  he  said,  "What's  thatf" 

"  'Tis  the  biggest  river  in  Sussex,  young  man,  and  the  littlest 
known,  and  the  fullest  of  dangers,  and  the  hardest  to  find;  be- 
cause nobody's  ever  found  it  yet  but  her  and  me.  And  she'd 
sworn  to  wed  none  but  him  as  could  find  it  with  her.  Don't  I 
remember  the  day!  'Twas  the  day  the  Carrier  come,  and  that 
was  the  day  o'  the  week  for  us  folk  then.  He  had  a  blue 
wagon,  had  George,  with  scarlet  wheels  and  a  green  awning; 
and  his  horse  was  a  red-and-white  skewbald  and  jingled  bells  on 
its  bridle.  A  small  bandy-legged  man  was  George,  wi'  a  jolly 
face  and  a  squint,  and  as  he  drives  up  he  toots  on  a  tin  trumpet 
wi'  red  tassels  on  it.  Didn't  it  bring  the  crowd  running!  and 
didn't  the  crowd  bring  him  to  a  standstill,  some  holding  old 
Scarlet  Runner  by  the  bridle,  and  others  standing  on  the  very 
axles.  And  the  hubbub,  young  man!  It  was  'Where's  my  six 
yards  of  dimity?'  from  one,  and  'Have  you  my  coral  necklace?' 
from  another.  'Where's  my  bag  of  comfits?  where's  my  hun- 
dreds and  thousands?'  from  the  children;  and  'I  can't  wait  for 
my  ivory  fan!'  'My  bandanna  hanky!'  'My  two  ounces  of 
snuff!'  'My  guitar!'  'My  clogs!'  'My  satin  dancing-shoes!' 
'My  onion-seed !'  'My  new  spindle!'  'My  fiddle-bow!'  'My 
powder-puff!'  And  some  little  'un  would  lisp,  'I'm  sure  you've 
forgotten  my  blue  balloon!'  And  then  they'd  cry,  one-and-all, 
in  a  breath,  'George!  what's  the  news?'  And  he'd  say,  'Give 
a  body  elbow-room!'  and  handing  the  packages  right  and  left 
would  alius  have  something  to  tell.  But  on  this  day  he  says, 
'News?  There  he  no  news  excepting  the  News.'  'And  what's 
the  News?'  cries  one-and-all.  'Why,'  says  George,  'that  the 
Rose  of  Smockalley  consents  to  be  wed  at  last.'  'The  Rose!' 
they  cries,  and  me  the  loudest,  'to  whom?'  'To  him,'  says 
George,  'as  can  find  her  the  Murray  River.  For  a  sailor  come 
by  last  Tuesday  wi'  a  tale  o'  the  Murray  River  where  he'd 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    261 

been  wrecked  and  seen  wonders;  and  a  woman  tormented  by 
curiosity  will  go  as  far  as  a  man  tormented  by  love.  And  so 
she's  willing  to  be  wed  at  last.  But  she's  liker  to  die  a  maid.' 
Then  I  ups  and  asks  why.  And  George  he  says,  'For  that  the 
sailor  breathed  such  perils  that  the  lasses  was  taken  wi'  the 
trembles  and  the  lads  with  the  shudders.  For,  he  says,  the 
river's  haunted  by  spirits,  and  a  mystery  at  the  end  of  it  which 
none  has  ever  come  back  from.  And  no  man  dares  hazard  so 
dark  and  dangerous  an  adventure,  even  for  love  of  the  Rose.' 
That  pricks  a  man's  pride  to  hear,  boy,  and  'Shame,'  says  I,  'on 
all  West  Sussex  if  that  be  so.  Here  be  one  man  as  is  ready, 
and  here  be  fifty  others.  What  d'ye  say,  lads?'  But  Lord! 
as  I  looks  from  one  to  another  they  trickles  away  like  sand 
through  an  hourglass,  and  before  we  knows  it  me  and  George 
has  the  road  to  ourselves.  So  he  says,  'I  must  be  getting  on  to 
Wisboro',  but  first  I'll  deliver  ye  your  baggage.'  'You've  no 
baggage  o'  mine,'  says  I.  'Yes,  if  you'll  excuse  me,'  says  he;  and 
wi'  that  he  parts  the  green  awning  and  says,  'There  she  be.' 
And  there  she  were,  sitting  on  a  barrel  o'  cider," 

"What  was  she  like  to  look  at?"  asked  Martin. 

"Yaller  hair  and  gray  eyes,"  said  Gillman.  "And  me  a 
bachelor." 

"It  was  hopeless,"  said  Martin. 

"It  were,"  said  Old  Gillman.  "And  it  were  the  end  0'  my 
peace  of  life.  She  looks  me  straight  in  the  eye  and  she  says, 
'Juniper's  my  name,  but  I'm  June  to  them  as  loves  me.  And 
June  I'll  be  to  you.  For  I  have  traveled  his  rounds  wi'  this 
Carrier  for  a  week,  and  sat  behind  his  curtain  while  he  told 
men  my  wishes.  And  you  be  the  only  one  of  them  all  as  is  will- 
ing to  do  a  difficult  thing  for  an  idle  whim,  if  what  is  the  heart's 
desire  can  ever  be  idle.  So  I  will  sit  behind  the  curtain  no 
longer,  and  if  you  will  let  me  I  will  follow  you  to  the  ends  of 
Sussex  till  the  Murray  River  be  found,  or  we  be  dead.'  And 
I  says  'Jump,  lass!'  and  down  she  jumps  and  puts  up  her 
mouth."     Gillman  filled  his  mug. 

Martin  filled  his.  "Well,"  said  he,  "a  man  must  take  his 
bull  by  the  horns.  And  did  you  ever  succeed  in  finding  the 
Murray  River?" 

"Wi'  a  child's  help.  It  can  only  be  found  by  a  child's  help. 
'Tis  the  child's  river  of  all  Sussex.  Any  child  can  help  you 
to  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Martin,  "and  all  children  know  it." 

Old  Gillman  put  down  his  mug.     "Do  you  know  it,  boy?" 


262    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"I  live  by  it,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "when  I  live  anywhere." 

"Do  children  play  in  it  still?"  asked  Gillman. 

"None  but  children,"  said  Martin  Pippin.  "And  above  all 
the  child  which  boys  and  girls  are  always  rediscovering  in  each 
other's  hearts,  even  when  they've  turned  gray  in  other  folks' 
sight.    And  at  the  end  of  it  is  a  mystery." 

"She  were  a  child  to  the  end,"  said  Old  Gillman.  "A  fair 
nuisance,  so  she  were.     And  Jill  takes  after  her." 

"Well,  she's  off  your  hands  anyhow,"  said  Martin  getting 
up.  "She's  to  be  some  other  body's  nuisance  now,  and  your 
maids  have  come  back  to  their  milking." 

"Ah,  have  they?"  grunted  Gillman.  "The  lads  did  it  bet- 
ter. And  they  cooked  better.  And  they  cleaned  better.  There 
is  nothing  men  cannot  do  better  than  women." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "but  it  would  be  unkind 
to  let  on." 

"Then  we'll  wash  our  hands  of  'em.  But  don't  go,  boy,"  said 
Old  Gillman.     "Talking  of  Sloe  Gin—" 

Martin  sat  down  again. 

They  talked  of  Sloe  Gin  for  a  very  long  time.  They  did  not 
agree  about  it.  They  got  out  some  bottles  to  see  if  they  could 
not  manage  to  agree.  Martin  thought  one  bottle  hadn't  enough 
sugar-candy  in  it,  so  they  put  in  some  more;  and  Old  Gillman 
thought  another  bottle  hadn't  enough  gin  in  it,  so  they  also  put 
in  some  more.  But  they  couldn't  get  it  right,  though  they  tried 
and  tried.  Old  Gillman  thought  it  should  be  filtered  drop  by 
drop  seventy  times  through  seven  hundred  sheets  of  blotting- 
paper,  but  Martin  thought  seven  hundred  times  through  seventy 
sheets  was  better;  and  Martin  thought  it  should  then  be  kept 
for  seven  thousand  years,  but  Old  Gillman  thought  seven  years 
sufficient.  But  neither  of  these  points  had  ever  been  really 
proved,  and  was  not  that  day. 

After  this,  as  they  couldn't  reach  an  agreement,  they  changed 
the  subject  to  rum  punch,  and  argued  a  good  deal  as  to  the 
right  quantities  of  lemon  and  sugar  and  nutmeg;  and  whether 
it  was  or  was  not  improved  by  the  addition  of  brandy,  and  how 
much;  and  an  orange  or  so,  and  how  many;  and  a  tangerine, 
if  you  had  it;  and  a  tot  of  gin,  if  you  had  it  left.  Yet  in  this 
case  too  the  most  repeated  practice  proved  as  inadequate  as  the 
most  confirmed  theory. 

So  after  a  bit  Old  Gillman  said,  "This  is  child's  play,  boy. 
After  all,  there's  but  one  drink  for  kings  and  men.  Give  us 
a  song  over  our  cup,  and  I'll  sing  along  o'  ye." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    263 

"Right,"  said  Martin,  "if  you  can  fetch  me  the  only  cup 
worthy  to  sing  over." 

"What  cup's  that,  boy?" 

"What  but  a  kingcup?"  said  Martin. 

"A  king  once  drank  from  this,"  said  Gillman,  fetching  down 
a  goblet  as  golden  as  ale.  "He  looked  like  a  shepherd,  and 
had  a  fold  just  across  the  road,  but  he  was  a  king  for  all  that. 
So  strike  up." 

"After  me,  then,"  said  Martin ;  and  they  pushed  the  cup  be- 
tween them,  and  the  song  too. 


Martin: 

What  shall  ive  drink  of  luhen  ive  sup? 

Gillman: 

What  d'ye  say  to  the  King's  own  cupf 

Martin: 

What's  the  drink  f 

Gillman: 

What  d'ye  think? 

Martin: 

Farmer,  say! 

Water? 

Gillman: 

Nay! 

Martin  : 

Wine? 

Gillman: 

Aye! 

Martin: 

Red  ivine? 

Gillman: 

Fie! 

Martin: 

White  ivine? 

Gillman: 

No! 

Martin  : 

Yelloiu  ivine? 

Gillman: 

Oh! 

Martin: 

What  in  fine. 

What  wine  then? 

Gillman: 

The  only  ivine 

That's  fit  for  men 

Who  drink  of  the  King's  Cup  when  they  dine. 

And  that  is  the  Old  Brown  Barley  WineJ 

From  This 

I'll  drink  ye  high, 

Point  I 

I'll  drink  ye  low. 

Don't  Know 

Till  the  stars  run  dry 

Which  of 

Of  their  juices   oh! 

Them  Was 

I'll  drink  ye  up, 

Singing; 

I'll  drink  ye  down. 

AND  NO  More 

Till  the  old  moon's  cup 

Did  They: 

Is   cracked   all   round. 

And  the  pickled  sun 

Jumps  out  of  his  brine. 

And  you  cry  Done! 

To  the  Barley  Wine. 

Come,  boy,  sup!     Come,  fill  up! 

Here's  King's  own  drink  for  the  King's  own  cup! 

What  happened  after  this  I  really  don't  know.     For  I  was 
not  there,  though  I  should  like  to  have  been. 

I  only  know  that  when  Martin  Pippin  stepped  out  of  Gill- 


264    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

man's  Farm  with  his  lute  on  his  back,  Old  Gillman  was  fast 
asleep  on  the  settle.  But  Martin  had  never  been  wider  awake. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  There  was  no  sign  of  human 
life  anywhere.  In  their  stables  the  cows  were  lowing  very 
badly. 

"Oh,  maids,  maids,  maids!"  sighed  Martin  Pippin.  "Rack 
and  ruin,  my  dears,  rack  and  ruin!" 

And  he  fetched  the  milkpails  and  went  into  the  stalls,  and 
did  the  milkmaids'  business  for  them.  And  Joyce's  Blossom, 
and  Jennifer's  Daisy,  and  Jessica's  Clover  stood  as  still  for 
him  as  they  stand  in  the  shade  of  the  willows  on  Midsummer 
Day.  And  Jane's  Nellie  whisked  her  tail  over  his  mouth,  but 
seemed  sorry  afterwards.  And  Joscelyn's  Lemon  kicked  the 
bucket  and  would  not  let  down  her  milk  till  he  sang  to  her, 
and  then  she  gave  in.  But  little  Joan's  little  Jersey  Nancy, 
with  her  soft  dark  eyes,  and  soft  dun  sides,  and  slender  legs 
like  a  dear's,  licked  his  cheek.  And  this  was  Martin's  milking- 
song. 

You  Milkmaids  in  the  hedgeroius. 

Get  up  and  milk  your  kinef 
The  satin   Lords   and  Ladies 
Are  all  dressed  up  so  fine, 
But  if  you  do  not  skim  and  churn 

Hoiv  can  they  dine? 
Get  up,  you  idle  Milkmaids, 
And  call  in  your  kine. 

You  milkmaids  in  the  hedgeroivs. 

You  lazy  lovely  crew, 
Get   up   and   churn    the   buttercups 

And  skim  the  milkweed,  do! 
But  the  Milkmaids   in   their  country  prints 

And  faces  washed  with  dew, 
They  laughed  at  Lords  and  Ladies 

And  sang  "Cuckoo!    Cuckoo!" 
And  if  you  know  their  reason 

I'm   not  so  wise  as  you. 

When  he  had  done,  Martin  carried  the  pails  to  the  dairy  and 
turned  his  back  on  Gillman's.  For  his  business  there  was 
ended.  So  he  went  out  at  the  gate  and  lifted  his  face  to  the 
Downs. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening.  Half  the  sky  was  clear  and  blue, 
and  the  other  half  full  of  sulky  gold  clouds — they  wanted  to  be 
heavy  and  wet,  but  the  sun  was  having  such  fun  on  the  edge  of 
the  Downs,  somewhere  about  Duncton,  that  they  had  to  be  gold 
in  spite  of  themselves. 


CONCLUSION 

ONE  evening  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  in  September, 
Martin  Pippin  walked  along  the  Roman  Road  to  Ad- 
versane.     And    as  he   approached   he  said    to   himself, 
"There  are  many  sweet  corners  in   Sussex,   but  few  sweeter 
than  this,  and  I  thank  my  stars  that  I  have  been  led  to  see  it 
once  in  my  life." 

While  he  was  thanking  his  stars,  which  were  already  in  the 
sky  waiting  for  the  light  to  go  out  and  give  them  a  chance,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  weeping.  It  came  from  the  malthouse, 
which  is  the  most  beautiful  building  in  Sussex.  So  persistent 
was  it  that  after  he  had  listened  to  it  for  six  minutes  it  seemed 
to  Martin  that  he  had  been  listening  to  it  for  six  months,  and 
for  one  moment  he  believed  himself  to  be  sitting  in  an  orchard 
with  his  eyes  shut,  and  warm  tears  from  heaven  falling  on  his 
face.  But  knowing  himself  to  be  too  much  given  to  fancies  he 
decided  to  lay  those  ghosts  by  investigation,  and  he  went  up  to 
the  malthouse  and  looked  inside. 

There  he  found  a  young  man  flooring  the  barley.  As  he 
turned  and  re-turned  it  with  his  spade  he  wept  so  copiously 
above  it  that  he  was  frequently  obliged  to  pause  and  wipe  awav 
his  tears  with  his  arm,  for  he  could  no  longer  see  the  barley 
he  was  spreading.  When  the  maltster  had  interrupted  himself 
thus  for  the  third  occasion,  Martin  Pippin  concluded  that  it 
was  time  to  address  him. 

"Young  master,"  said  Martin,  "the  bitters  that  are  brewed 
from  your  barley  will  need  no  adulterating  behind  the  bar,  and 
that's  flat." 

The  maltster  leaned  on  his  spade  to  reply. 

"There  are  no  waters  in  all  the  world,"  said  he,  "plentifiil 
enough  to  adulterate  the  bitterness  of  my  despair." 

"Then  I  would  preserve  these  rivers  for  better  sport,"  said 
Martin.  "And  if  memory  plays  me  no  tricks,  your  name  was 
once  Robin  Rue." 

"And  Rue  it  will  be  to  my  last  hour,"  said  Robin,  "for  a 
man  can  no  more  escape  from  his  name  than  from  his  nature." 

265 


266    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

"Men,"  observed  Martin,  "have  been  in  this  respect  worse 
served  than  women.  And  when  will  Gillian  Gillman  change 
her  name?" 

"No  sooner  than  I,"  sighed  Robin  Rue;  "a  maid  she  must 
die,  as  I  a  bachelor.  And  if  she  do  not  outlive  me,  we  shall 
both  be  buried  before  Christmas." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  exclaimed  Martin.  And  stepping  into  the 
malthouse  he  offered  Robin  six  keys. 

"How  will  these  help  us?"  said  Robin  Rue. 

"They  are  the  keys  of  your  lady's  Well-House,"  said  Mar- 
tin Pippin,  "and  how  I  have  outpaced  her  I  cannot  imagine, 
for  she  was  on  the  road  to  you  twenty  hours  ago." 

"This  is  no  news,"  said  Robin.    "There  she  is." 

And  he  turned  his  face  to  the  dark  of  the  malthouse,  and 
there,  sitting  on  a  barrel,  with  a  slice  of  the  sunset  falling 
through  a  slit  on  her  corn-colored  hair,  was  Gillian. 

"In  love's  name,"  cried  Martin  Pippin,  putting  his  hands  to 
his  head,  "what  more  do  you  want?" 

"A  husband  worthy  of  her,"  moaned  Robin  Rue,  "and  how 
can  I  suppose  that  I  am  he  ?  Oh,  that  I  were  only  good  enough 
for  her!  oh,  that  she  could  be  happily  mated,  as  after  all  her 
sorrows  she  deserves  to  be!" 

Then  Martin  looked  down  at  the  patch  on  his  shoe  saying, 
"And  tell  me  now,  if  you  knew  Gillian  happily  wed,  would 
you  ask  nothing  more  of  life?" 

"Oh,  sir,"  cried  Robin  Rue,  "if  I  knew  any  man  who  could 
give  her  all  I  cannot,  I  would  contrive  at  least  to  live  long 
enough  to  drown  my  sorrows  in  the  beer  brewed  from  this 
barley." 

"It  is  a  solace,"  said  Martin,  "that  must  be  denied  to  no 
man.  It  seems  that  I  must  help  you  out  to  the  last.  And  if 
you  will  take  one  glance  out  of  doors,  you  will  see  that  the 
working-day  is  over." 

Robin  Rue  looked  out  of  doors,  saw  by  the  sun  that  it  was 
so,  put  down  his  spade,  and  went  home  to  supper. 

"Gillian,"  said  Martin  Pippin,  "the  Squire  did  not  come  him- 
self to  fetch  her  away  because  he  was  a  young  fool.  There 
was  no  eighth  floret  on  the  grass-blade,  so  the  rime  stayed  at 
the  seventh.  The  letter  I  threw  with  the  Lady-peel  was  a  G. 
There  are  apples  all  round  your  silver  ring  because  it  was  once 
my  ring.     I  do,  you  dear,  I  do,  I  do.     And  now  I  have  an- 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    267 

swered  your  many  questions,  answer  me  one.    Why  did  you  sit 
six  months  in  the  Well-House  weeping  for  love?" 

"Oh,  Martin,"  said  Gillian  softly,  "could  you  tell  my  friends 
so  much  t|iey  did  not  know,  and  not  know  this? — girls  do  not 
weep  for  love,  they  weep  for  want  of  it."  And  she  lifted  her 
heavenly  eyes,  and  out  of  the  last  of  the  sunlight  looked  at  him 
without  thinking.  And  Martin,  like  a  drowning  man  catching 
at  straws,  caught  her  corn-colored  plaits  one  in  either  hand,  and 
drawing  himself  to  her  by  them,  whispered,  "Do  girls  do  that? 
But  they  are  so  much  too  good  for  us,  Gillian." 

"I  know  they  are,"  whispered  Gillian,  "but  if  all  men  were 
like  Robin  Rue,  what  would  become  of  us?  Must  we  be  pun- 
ished for  what  we  can't  help  ?" 

And  she  put  her  little  finger  on  his  mouth,  and  he  kissed  it. 

Then  Martin  himself  sat  down  on  the  barrel  where  there 
was  only  room  for  one ;  but  it  was  Martin  who  sat  on  it.  And 
after  a  while  he  said,  "You  mightn't  think  it,  but  I  have  got  a 
cottage,  and  there  is  nothing  whatever  in  it  but  a  table  which 
I  made  myself,  and  I  think  that  is  enough  to  begin  with.  On 
the  way  to  it  we  shall  pass  Hardliam,  where  in  the  Priory 
Ruins  lives  a  Hermit  who  is  sometimes  in  the  mood.  Beyond 
Hardham  is  the  sunken  bed  of  the  old  canal  that  is  a  secret  not 
known  to  everybody;  all  flowering  reeds  and  plants  that  love 
water  grow  there,  and  you  have  to  push  your  way  between  wa- 
ter-loving trees  under  which  grass  and  nettles  in  their  season 
grow  taller  than  children;  but  at  other  times,  when  the  pussy- 
willows bloom  with  gray  and  golden  bees,  the  way  is  clear.  Be- 
yond this  presently  is  a  little  glade,  the  loveliest  in  Sussex ; 
in  spring  it  is  patterned  with  primroses,  and  windflowers  shake 
their  fragile  bells  and  show  their  silver  stars  above  them.  Some 
are  pure  and  colorless,  like  maidens  who  know  nothing  of  love, 
and  others  are  faintly  stained  with  streaks  of  purple-rose.  So 
exquisite  is  the  beauty  of  these  earthly  flowers  that  it  is  like  a 
heavenly  dream,  but  it  is  a  dream  come  true;  and  you  will  never 
pass  it  in  April  without  longing  to  turn  aside  and,  kneeling 
among  all  that  pallid  gold  and  silver,  offer  up  a  prayer  to 
the  fairies.  And  I  shall  always  kneel  there  with  3'ou.  But 
beyond  this  is  a  land  of  bracken  and  undiscovered  forests 
that  hides  a  special  secret.  And  you  may  run  round  it  on  all 
sides  within  fifty  yards,  yet  never  find  it;  unless  you  happen  to 
light  upon  a  lane  where  grass  springs  under  your  feet  among 
deep  cart-ruts,  and  blackberry  branches  scramble  on  the  ground 


268    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

from  the  flowery  sides.  The  lane  is  called  Shelley's  Lane,  for  a 
reason  too  beautiful  to  be  told ;  since  all  the  most  beautiful  rea- 
sons in  the  world  are  kept  secrets.  And  this  is  why,  dear  Gil- 
lian, the  world  never  knows,  and  cannot  for  the  life  of  it  im- 
agine, what  this  man  sees  in  that  maid  and  that  maid  in  this 
man.  The  world  cannot  think  why  they  fell  in  love  with  each 
other.  But  they  have  their  reason,  their  beautiful  secret,  that 
never  gets  told  to  more  than  one  person;  and  what  they  see 
in  each  other  is  what  they  show  to  each  other;  and  it  is  the 
truth.  Only  they  kept  it  hidden  in  their  hearts  until  the  time 
came.  And  though  you  and  I  may  never  know  why  this  lane 
is  called  Shelley's,  to  us  both  it  will  always  be  the  greenest  lane 
in  Sussex,  because  it  leads  to  the  special  secret  I  spoke  of.  At 
the  end  of  it  is  an  old  gate,  clambered  with  blue  periwinkle, 
and  the  gate  opens  into  a  garden  in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  a 
garden  so  gay  and  so  scented,  so  full  of  butterflies  and  bees  and 
flower-borders  and  grass-plots  with  fruit-trees  on  them,  that  it 
might  be  Eden  grown  tiny.  The  garden  runs  down  a  slope,  and 
is  divided  from  a  wild  meadow  by  a  brook  crossed  by  a  plank, 
fringed  with  young  hazel  and  alder  and,  at  the  right  time, 
thick-set  with  primroses.  Behind  the  meadow,  in  a  glimpse  of 
the  distance  full  of  soft  blue  shadows  and  pale  }'ellow  lights, 
lie  the  lovely  sides  of  the  Downs,  rounded  and  dimpled  like 
human  beings,  dimpled  like  babies,  rounded  like  women.  The 
flow  of  their  lines  is  like  the  breathing  of  a  sleeper;  you  can 
almost  see  the  tranquil  heaving  of  a  bosom.  All  about  and 
around  the  garden  are  the  trees  of  the  forest.  Crouched 
in  one  of  the  hollows  is  my  cottage  with  the  table  in  it. 
And  the  brook  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  is  the  Murrav 
River."  ^ 

Gillian  looked  up  from  his  shoulder.  "I  always  meant  to  find 
that  some  day,"  she  said,  "with  some  one  to  help  me." 

"I'll  help  you,"  said  Martin. 

"Do  children  play  there  now?" 

"Children  with  names  as  lovely  as  Sylvia,  who  are  even  love- 
lier than  their  names.  They  are  the  only  spirits  who  haunt  it. 
And  at  the  source  of  it  is  a  mystery  so  beautiful  that  one  day, 
when  you  and  I  have  discovered  it  together,  we  shall  never  come 
back  again.  But  this  will  be  after  long  years  of  gladness,  and 
a  life  kept  always  young,  not  only  by  our  children,  but  by  the 
child  which  each  will  continually  rediscover  in  the  other's 
heart." 


MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD    269 

"What  is  this  you  are  telling  me?"  whispered  Gillian,  hiding 
her  face  again. 

"The  Seventh  Story." 

"I'm  glad  it  ends  happily,"  said  Gillian.  "But  somehow, 
all  the  time,  I  thought  it  would." 

"I  rather  thought  so  too,"  said  Martin  Pippin.  "For  what 
does  furniture  matter  as  long  as  Sussex  grows  bedstraw  for 
ladies  to  sleep  on?" 

And  tuning  his  lute  he  sang  her  his  very  last  song. 

My  Lady  sha'n't  lie  between  linen. 

My  Lady  sha'n't  lie  upon  down, 

She  shall  not  have  blankets  to  cover  her  feet 

Or  a  pillow  put  under  her  crown; 

But  my  Lady  shall  lie  on  the  sweetest  of  beds 

That  ever  a  lady  saw. 

For  my  Lady,  my  beautiful  Lady, 

My  Lady  shall  lie  upon  straw. 

Strew  the  sweet  white  straw,  he  said. 
Strew  the  straw  for  my  Lady's  bed — 
Two   ells  wide  from  foot  to  head. 
Strew  my  Lady's  bedstraw. 

My  Lady  sha'n't  sleep  in  a  castle, 

My  Lady  sha'n't  sleep  in  a  hall. 

She  shall  not  be  sheltered  away  from  the  stars 

By  curtain  or  casement  or  wall; 

But  my  Lady  shall  sleep  in  the  grassiest  mead 

That  ever  a  Lady  saw, 

fVhere   my  Lady,  my  beautiful  Lady, 

My  Lady  shall  lie  upon  straw. 

Strew  the  warm  white  straw,  said  he. 
My  arms  shall  all  her  shelter  be. 
Her  castle-walls  and  her  own  roof-tree — 
Strew  my  Lady's  bedstraw. 

When  he  had  done  Martin  said,  "Will  you  go  traveling,  Gil- 
lian?" 

And  Gillian  answered,  "With  joy,  Martin.  But  before  I  go 
traveling,  I  will  sing  to  you." 

And  taking  the  lute  from  him  she  sang  him  her  very  first 
song. 

I  saw  an  Old  Man  by  the  wayside 
Sit  down   with   his   crutch   to   rest. 
Like  the  smoke  of  an  angry  kettle 
Was  the  beard  puffed  over  his  breast. 


270    MARTIN  PIPPIN  IN  THE  APPLE-ORCHARD 

But  nuhen  I  tugged  at  the  Old  Man's  beard 
He  turned  to  a  beardless  boy, 
And  the  boy  and  myself  luent  traveling. 
Traveling  ivild  with  joy. 

With  eyes  that  tvjinkled  and  hearts  that  danced 
And  feet  that  skipped  as  they  ran — 
Nov)  voelcome,  you  blithe  young  Traveler! 
And  fare  you  well.  Old  Man! 

When  s^e  had  done  Martin  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  on  the  mouth  and  on  the  eyes  and  on  both  cheeks  and  on 
her  two  hands,  and  on  the  back  of  the  neck  where  babies  are 
kissed;  and  standing  her  up  on  the  barrel  and  himself  on  the 
ground,  he  kissed  her  feet,  one  after  the  other..  Then  he  cried, 
"Jump,  lass!  jump  when  I  tell  you!"  and  Gillian  jumped.  And 
as  happy  as  children  they  ran  hand-in-hand  out  of  the  Malt- 
house  and  down  the  road  to  Hardham. 

Overhead  the  sun  was  running  away  from  the  clouds  with 
all  his  might,  and  they  were  trying  to  catch  hold  of  him  one  by 
one,  in  vain;  for  he  rolled  through  their  soft  grasp,  leaving 
their  hands  bright  with  gold-dust. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
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